


Where the Aftertaste Still Lingers

by WhatEvenAmI



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol, Blood, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Cats, Child Abuse, Child Death, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cutting, Denial, Dom/sub, Drinking, Drugs, F/M, Flashbacks, HYDRA Trash Party, Hand Feeding, Humiliation, Hydra (Marvel), I Don't Even Know, Knifeplay, Knives, M/M, Memories, Memory Loss, Murder, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Obsession, Oral Sex, Original Character(s), Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, POV Multiple, POV Original Character, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Pedophilia, Poor Bucky, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve, Rambling, Repressed Emotions, Repressed Memories, Restraints, SHIELD, Sadism, Sadness, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sexual Abuse, Sparring, Therapy, Torture, Training, Unhealthy Relationships, Vomiting, Wetting, badassery, sexual awakening, shattered dreams, tragic backstory, you son of a bitch murphy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-01 14:57:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4024147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatEvenAmI/pseuds/WhatEvenAmI
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em> The first time the Commander does not lead him back to the chair upon the return from a mission, the Soldier is confused, but does not question it.</em>
</p><p>Bucky's mind holds the key to rooting out what remains of HYDRA, but his memories are recovered at a heavy cost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No Longer the Lost, No Longer the Same

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean for this to be a series. It was supposed to be for a prompt and then ended up being nothing like what the prompt asked for, so I just said screw it and this mess happened. And then a couple people made suggestions for more and now...I guess it's a thing. 
> 
> Because it was meant to be a standalone, the first chapter is exceptionally long. I promise not every chapter will be such a marathon.
> 
> Don't know what it is or where it came from...hope you enjoy it though. *dives under bed*

_The first time the Commander does not lead him back to the chair upon the return from a mission, the Soldier is confused, but does not question it. He is led into a small and dimly-lit room. He quickly takes in his surroundings and notes the soundproofing on the door, the slick white floor sloping down to a crosshatched drain, the hose coiled on the far wall. This room is designed for the specific purpose of torture._

"Buck? You okay?"

"I'm here, just give me a sec." Bucky mutters.

Here, and not in a torture chamber. Here, sitting on Steve's bed. They'd been eating popcorn and binge-watching Netflix when a storm of hidden memories commenced their siege on Bucky's brain. 

By now the Avengers all recognize the signs of what Doctor Ramiro has termed "doorway memories". They're increasing in frequency as his brain heals from more than half a century of continuous freezing and frying. The 'trigger' is the key, and once he lets the door fall open, he can't always stop the memories that come rushing through. The flood of imagery and emotions leaves him overwhelmed and out of control. 

He  _should_ be trying to operate the doors. That's what Doctor Ramiro suggested, and honestly, she's usually right. She thinks that, if possible, he should try letting a few thoughts through at a time so that he can process each memory. And that makes sense, but as much as they terrify and agonize him, as horrified and stunned as he is at just how low he got, the memories are  _useful_. And lately it's the only damn  _useful_ thing he's been allowed to do.

The first breakthrough occurred a couple months after Bucky moved into the Tower. The doorway memories were a new phenomenon at that point and Bucky felt they were the yet another sick joke, courtesy of the goddamned universe. Once he'd realized the magnitude of what HYDRA had taken from him he had desperately wanted a way to get it back. And now that he _was_ remembering, he'd have done anything to make it  _stop._

That morning, they'd been eating some kind of cereal that was supposedly organic and gluten-free, whatever the hell that meant. Tony was dramatically reading the endorsement on the back of the box.

"Ten percent of profits...proud to support fair trade...each and every delicious ingredient is naturally enriched _and_  ethically sourced."

And Bucky felt a door begin to unlock.

(He can usually feel it coming. It's like he's got a vast blank wall in his head lined with doors, unyieldingly locked. There's always pressure behind them, always something rattling the knob from the other side and trying to claw its way through.)

"Someone from one of the tac teams was always going on about that," he had mused, more to himself than anyone else. 

"Really." Tony glanced at the box, "A member of a totalitarian organization planning the slaughter of millions was concerned about fair trade and ethical sourcing."

"Well, Murphy could get _—_ "

" _Murphy?"_  

"You're kidding."

" _Isaac_ Murphy?"

Natasha and Steve had sat straight up in their seats and Clint choked on his coffee. Bucky stared at his cereal and nodded. "Think that was his name."

"You're  _sure?"_ Steve asked, looking deeply so deeply wounded it made Bucky's stomach ache. He began to bite his finger, caught himself, lowered his hand.

"Uh...had kinda long hair...I think people got mad at him a lot. He, uh...he did something with technology...? Computers. Whatever he did, he was really good at it."

"That sounds a lot like Murphy." Natasha shook her head.

"Guy who named a cat after Steve? Almost cried over a jell-o cup? Handed out brochures on the effects of conservative culture on LGBT youth?" Clint wiped coffee off his mouth.

"Jell-o's made with animal bones," Bucky remembered aloud.

"I can't believe it. Isaac could never hurt anyone." 

Technically, he hadn't. He'd just given the Soldier the means to do it, usually from behind a screen some distance away.

"It could have been an act. Pierce had a pretty good one going."

"I don't think so, Nat. You remember his face when Steve gave a pre-mission speech? Actual _tears_. Hanging on every word."

"Yeah, and do you want to bet that mission was really for HYDRA?" 

Natasha had looked so stunned. They all did, and it wasn't like betrayal from former friends was new to them. 

"You son of a bitch, Murphy," Bucky whispered without really knowing why, and for some reason that had finally convinced them. 

He'd felt guilty for dropping that on them, shaking them up like that. Then another memory came on the heels of that one. He recalled Murphy's obsession with polydactyl cats and the Ernest Hemingway house, and that led the Avengers to his hiding place on Key West. He and another agent, Julie Anders, were taken into custody, eventually yielding intel that resulted in a streak of captures and the discovery of several hidden bunkers.

That had all been thanks to Bucky. Despite frequent panic attacks over the smell of lightning and glasses of milk and dental exams, despite being on constant lockdown under heavy scrutiny, the first major headway against HYDRA had been his doing.

For all of the Avengers' efforts to root out the last of HYDRA, he was the one with an expansive cache of inside information. He just had to keep unlocking imaginary doors.

Okay, so what came pouring through them damn near killed him, but being able to do _something_ to help take down HYDRA,  _anything,_ was worth the aftereffects. At least Bucky thought so. Doctor Ramiro was a bit concerned, but after everything he's done, Bucky's not going to put his own comfort over taking down HYDRA. How could he? 

Most of the memories come in flashes anyway, and he can't control those. The first time that happened, the Avengers had been defending the Tower against an attack. Bucky doesn't know the details; he'd arrived a few days prior after Steve had found him slumped in an alley, lethargic and shaking. He'd been attempting to eat food but he kept vomiting it back out, his stomach cramping badly enough to render him immobile. Meanwhile, his metabolism was burning through what little sustenance he'd been given prior to what he still can't bring himself to think of as a failed mission.

(As he does not know what else to call it, he refuses to think about it. And Doctor Ramiro has a lot of opinions on that.)

It had been a smart move on HYDRA's part; he couldn't eat on his own, and only they could keep him fed, but never  _well_ fed. No matter how far they sent him out, that particular force of nature would quickly drive him back to them.

He had allowed their destruction, and thus he'd doomed himself. There was no source of maintenance to return to, so he'd been living out a confused and dazed existence fraught with flashes of pain and memory, increasingly imbued with the urgent need for food.

He'd been in no condition to put up a fight when (he? mission? you're-my-friend) had found him lying in the alley. He'd given in to the inevitable. Either he would receive the care and reconstruction his body needed or he would be killed. That wouldn't make sense, but lately everything that made sense had been upended and shaken apart. He'd seen what food deprivation did, though. Whatever this baffling enigma of a person could concoct would be preferable to the drawn-out starvation.

And then he remembered the museum, the face, the name Steve. His memory wasn't great then, everything slipping away and coming back in like waves. So it took him a minute to recall  _best friends since childhood, Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers..._ _  
_

(And he didn't remember having a childhood at all. Until then it had not occurred to him that he must have been a child once.)

Steve scooped him off the ground far more gently than he'd expected, talking into an earpiece and bringing him to the hovercraft. There, he was set on a padded table and strapped securely down. Steve kept apologizing about the restraints, which he hadn't really understood. 

Steve was confusing, snatches of memory and emotion jolting through him with every subtle expression, with the shifts in his tone and his eyes and the way he said "Bucky". It was so frustrating; somewhere, _somewhere_  in him this all made sense, somewhere he _knew_ what it all meant, but when he tried to go chasing after those memories he kept running into a vast wall. He didn't have the energy to crash into it over and over, or to scream and wrestle against his restraints like he wanted to. Clearly he was erratic, breaking down, but there was no chair to fix it, just the table where needles pricked into his flesh arm and a team of people in dark suits examined his body.

Steve had explained to him that they were giving him drugs made specially for his super-soldier metabolism, that it might make him feel strange but that was okay, it would help him feel better. And it had; he'd become quite calm and then content. Everything spun in lopsided circles when he tried to keep his eyes open, so he closed them and let just his head spin instead. It was easier than looking at Steve, still listlessly knocking his head against that blank white wall.

A little later his insides began to feel all _wrong_. He'd retched and dry-heaved and moaned as the cramps managed to fight their way through the haze of painkillers, then pissed all over the operating table. He'd have flinched if the drugs hadn't held his muscles in a state of forced relaxation, but not a single blow fell. Unseen hands doctored his heavy, broken body while Steve rubbed his arm, murmuring words that spun too fast for him to chase them. He hadn't been in any condition to meet the Avengers; once they arrived at the Tower, he'd been brought to a dark, quiet room with shades drawn over the windows. Steve laid him down on a soft bed and covered him in blankets. 

The next few days were a haze of feverish hallucinations, a patchwork of nightmares pieced together from pain and fear without reason or context. Steve sat at Bucky's bedside and slept on his floor at night. He helped him to the bathroom and cleaned up the vomit when food clashed with his stomach. He tilted water to his lips and talked him through the terror that seized him in wakefulness and dreams. In that time, his entire world was Steve.

He completely missed the attack on the Tower. He didn't even know what _had_ attacked the Tower; he was completely unaware of any threat. For half a day he lay in the dark, wondering why Steve was gone, so afraid and so very alone. (Should he go looking? Was that allowed? He was too weak to try, anyway.) When Steve came back through the door he'd been flooded with so much relief that he immediately pulled him into a hug. Steve had hugged him back, shaking, and Bucky had worried that he'd been ill.

(Some nagging feeling urged him to listen for wheezing, but Steve was breathing fine.)

At that point it was decided that he was ready to meet the others. So far they'd seemed almost like fairytales to him. Vaguely, he knew they existed somewhere outside his bedroom door, but he never saw nor heard them and the stories Steve told him didn't entirely feel real.

By this point Steve had realized that Bucky wasn't exactly "Bucky" yet, but he was starting to remember what the name meant. Starting to pull up words from somewhere far away, asking if he could walk around and get his bearings. Meeting the entire group would have made him highly uneasy, so Steve had the Avengers come one by one to their floor. As the attack had just ceased, they came in fresh out of battle.

And that's what had caused the problem. The muscular man with the long blond hair had a carried in a distinct and pungent smell. Now Bucky knows that Thor is a god with lightning at his command, but when he'd first caught the scent of smoky electricity _—_

_He was howling in the chair, straining against the mercilessness of the restraints and the pain ripping through his core, meant to hold still but he couldn't, couldn't—_

_meant to—_

_please—_

_meant to—_

_gone, everything gone but flashing pain inside and all around ripping every molecule of him apart in world made of agony and pure terror and the echoing sound of his screams—_

And then he was shuddering on the floor of Steve's living room.

For a while he couldn't even talk; it was the same way he _felt_ after he'd been wiped. He didn't  _think_ it had been real, but he'd still checked with Steve to make sure. That's when Steve promised him there would be no more chairs, no wipes. Bucky had suspected as much, but was still trying to wrap his head around what that meant for him. He didn't know how to ask.

He didn't have the right words to explain what was happening to him, not until they introduced him to a Doctor Emilia Ramiro. Doctor Ramiro spoke in tones of calm and clinical detachment, like the technicians who had assessed the Soldier before putting him in the chair. He isn't sure exactly why that makes it easier for him to talk to her, but it does. 

Now Bucky brings up every new memory with Doctor Ramiro. He details them as accurately as he can remember and she writes them all down in her battered pink notebook. Some have provided useful leads on tracking down HYDRA or decrypting what files remained encoded. Those, she shows to him, asking his permission to share them with the Avengers. She always reiterates that he has the right to decline, but no matter what she says, he knows he never will. After all the damage wrought by his mismatched hands, he owes the world any possible scrap of effort towards taking down HYDRA and repairing the destruction he helped to bring about.

It isn't like he's unaccustomed to the lack of privacy. Between this and HYDRA, he knows which is preferable.

There are other memories, ones she writes notes on and files away for later. She's made sure to tell him, again and again, that he is allowed to read any and all notes from his file. There are also tapes from each of his therapy sessions and he'll be given access to them if he wishes. At first, Bucky took her up on that. In his second week at the Tower, Steve had been a little concerned upon finding Bucky sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor, playing back his therapy recordings and flipping feverishly through the battered Hello Kitty notebook.

Once he'd satisfied himself that there was nothing encrypted within the notes or the tapes (and given himself a headache deciphering page after page of the doctor's handwriting) he had opened up a little more. He'd even started providing Doctor Ramiro with  _accurate_ recollections.

She'd said he could tell her anything, and he'd ended up doing that more than he'd intended to. It was the perfect blankness of her face that drew him in. He'd done things that would horrify and repulse other people, things that horrified and repulsed _him_ so badly they made him feel sick. He'd seen too much shock and suspicion, too much goddamned  _pity_ , whenever he accidentally let slip some vestige of his time as the Soldier. But Doctor Ramiro was earnest and unruffled in both expression and tone. Her demeanor never wavered.

And so he'd ended up telling her about the time a target's teenage daughter had arrived home earlier than scheduled and found him standing over her father's pale body on the rug. She'd opened her mouth to scream and he'd been behind her, metal fingers pressed over her mouth before she could make a sound, thinking of nothing but silencing the girl before she could draw unwanted attention. He'd been told to be stealthy; this target was to disappear without a trace. The girl had thrown things off. He'd inserted a knife under her skin, slicing words out of her inch by inch, demanding to know who would think to look for her when she went missing. After carefully filing away that information, he'd hacked her to bits.

A handler had accompanied him that time, the pale one with a dark puff of curls subdued with an elastic tie _—_ at first he hadn't remembered her name. He  _did_ remember that she liked it when he licked the blood from his hands and his blade. That time, he'd done it without prompting, and her eyes had lit up. She'd given him a nod and a small smile, which he still relished despite himself. Sometimes, when he is alone, he'll bite his lips or his flesh hand, exploring the well of blood with his tongue, salty and stinging, relieved.

_(Kubiak, Agent Kubiak. That was the handler with the curly hair.)_

He's told Doctor Ramiro about his less drawn-out kills, too, the ones that went exactly according to plan, the shots fired at a distance, the poisonings or 'accidents' that proved fatal after he'd vacated the scene. In a way, those are worse, because he never knew them, not their faces or their names. Even now, he will never know the full magnitude of what he did. He killed quickly and without a second thought, and it sickens him how fucking  _easy_ that was.

Not that the more graphic memories are pleasant to relive, though. _  
_

_(Kubiak had had a thing for gore, with a fascination partial to blood. The messier a mission, the more brutal and drawn-out, the better. She had bright gold eyes and arms lined in ridges too perfect and symmetrical to have been acquired in combat. There was the possibility of torture, but he wasn't meant to ask questions._ _When she caught him looking on the return trip from a mission, she'd leaned in and murmured that she'd put them there a long time ago, before she'd learned certain things. He could not understand why she had done that, except. He thought perhaps he'd once needed similar lessons in order and obedience, in resistance to pain and fear. If Kubiak had taught these things to herself then she was a woman to be admired and respected._

_She always stayed within mission parameters, but whenever possible, she'd ordered the Soldier take liberties with his targets. She wanted him to make them shriek, to peel out skin and plunge into organs and spill the sticky red ooze far and wide. Lick it up, she'd told him. Kneel. Drink._

_It had made his stomach churn at first, but he learned to anticipate that. Learned, even, to savor the sticky tang sliding down his throat._

_In his early days at the Tower, he had been jittery, constantly restless. He hadn't really realized what he was doing until the day he noticed Steve looking at him oddly as he ran his tongue down his bloodied arm. He hadn't been able to explain why he was doing it, wouldn't have an available explanation for months.)_

Recently the self-inflicted injuries and the blood have been major themes in his therapy sessions. It came up when he experienced a particularly bad doorway memory in the shower, one of the few places where there aren't eyes scoping him out. The privacy is a huge relief, but it meant there hadn't been anyone to look after him. He'd come back to himself curled up on the shower floor, his body bruised and scratched and covered in bite marks. Steve was banging on the door.

"I'm _—_ I'm okay, I'm sorry!" Bucky had called through tears, blood dripping from his lips. He had no idea how long Steve had been there. (Had he been shouting? Had his body made a sound when it hit the shower floor?) 

Steve hugged him tightly when he came out, damp and shaking and bleeding still, took care of his injuries and soothed him with soft murmurs and gentle hands. Bucky hadn't even worried about the smothering concern and renewed vigilance that would result from this. He was in such terrible shape that all he could do was hold onto Steve and try not to throw up. 

Even with the enhanced healing factor, he'd given himself some nasty wounds. So by the time Doctor Ramiro arrived, he still had plenty of bite marks to show for the incident. As usual, she managed to draw it all out of him through deep breaths and stuttering pauses. Steve had stayed with him for that session, and Bucky remembers thinking, vaguely, that it was lucky Steve had never known Agent Kubiak. He thought his account might just provoke Steve into tracking the woman down and turning her sick forms of torture back on her. Is she even still alive?

Bucky wishes he could say he wants her dead. She was vile and sick, but there was something intriguing about her, too. He thinks the Soldier couldn't help being a little drawn to her, but he doesn't like to admit that now and it probably made the Soldier nervous too. He hadn't understood preferences or predilections that hadn't been programmed into him. He wasn't allowed to want.

_(It hadn't been blood or gore that had kick-started the memories of her; he'd returned from a workout and Natasha had offered him water. "Drink," she'd said, and it had been Kubiak's voice he heard. He'd begun shaking, temporarily unable to move until Natasha asked him if he was all right. Then he'd abruptly thrown up into a nearby flowerpot while she held his hair back. He hadn't left his room for the rest of the day, appalled and disgusted and biting viciously up his arm, unable to stop for even a second. As soon as the pain eased the shaking and the nausea came back, so he kept biting and biting, drinking down the evidence. Even knowing what he now knew, that had calmed him immensely and he hated himself for it.)_

Doctor Ramiro seems to have homed in on Kubiak and his reluctance to talk about her, and she's been the subject of many therapy sessions since. 

He's supposed to try not to injure himself, especially while he's conscious. He's heard all the lectures on why self-harm is not a healthy method of coping, and the blood drinking can't be good for his stomach. But sometimes when everything is sliding down into hell it's the only thing that holds him up. It comes from a place deep inside him, somewhere that still makes at least a little bit of sense. And if he doesn't always realize he's doing it, how do they expect him to stop?

(There's this horrible hollow feeling he gets when he thinks about giving it up. It makes him sick how much he needs to do it, sicker when he resists.)

Since nearly every recent session has been focused on his fucked-up time spent as a cultivated would-be vampire, he hasn't had as much of a chance to discuss the HYDRA intel that keeps coming back to him. Doctor Ramiro is bluntly insistent that his health needs to come before his desperation to feel useful, but that just makes Bucky even more stressed. He's been spending his nights frantically writing down anything and everything that might be useful so nothing can slip by unnoticed.

But Bucky shares this floor with Steve. Once he started regaining some stability Tony had offered to give him his own floor, and he'd kind of wanted that, but he didn't like admitting he was afraid to be too alone for too long. The others filled up the space and banished the empty places that could have been filled with handlers and technicians and Alexander Pierce coming to punish him and order him back into the chair. 

"I think I'm good here," he'd shrugged, silently begging Tony not to push the offer, to make him acknowledge how dependent he'd become.  

Sharing this apartment means he can't hide much. It had been about midnight when the knock came at door. Bucky hastily shoved his notepad under his pillow before answering. He'd been braced for a lecture, but instead, Steve asked him to come out and watch TV for a while.

"Come on. You're wearing yourself out. Give yourself a break, all right?"

And after too many nights on too little sleep, nights spent on the edge of debilitation, digging through memories that could wreck him at any moment, he did feel kind of...maybe a cross between the way he used to feel after a particularly deep wipe and the way he'd felt when he went too long without one.

"All right," he shrugged, and let Steve lead him to the other bedroom.

They ended up selecting a show at random on Netflix and chain-watching several episodes with a bowl of popcorn between them. Bucky kind of lost focus a while ago, but it's still been nice, staring at the screen with Steve's arm wrapped around him, each accusing the other of hogging the popcorn. It's been a while since he's done anything  _relaxing_. He's been stressed as hell, pounding away the miles and beating the fuck out of the punching bags in the Tower's gym, scrawling his way through long nights trying to keep hold of the memories, deliberately ignoring the concerned looks from the others. Now that he's calm he's just totally drained, drifting off with his head slumped on Steve's shoulder.

On-screen, a dark-haired woman is naked and trailing her fingers down a man's bared chest. As she works her way lower she slides to her knees, bringing the man's pants down in one fluid motion. Naked and kneeling with her head bent forward, she's _—_

_The first time the Commander does not lead him back to the chair_

 A doorway  _naked and kneeling_ with the pressure giving way and just from the feeling in his gut Bucky jerks forward, knowing he won't like what's behind _—_

_The first time the Commander does not lead him back to the chair upon the return from a mission, _the Soldier is confused, but does not question it.__

And Bucky's wishing now that he  _had_ practiced slamming those fucking doors shut because now he's shaking his head and rocking and trying to tell Steve he's all right trying to tell the memories  _no_ and  _stop_ and  _don't_ but they just _—_

Onscreen, the man's hands wind through the woman's hair and grab tight, drawing her in, pulling roughly _—_ _"Hold still, dammit. Fucking take it _—" hands yanking at his hair _—___

He flinches, gasping and struggling, knowing he has fucked something up. Except his hair isn't being pulled. Soft hands are running through it and Steve's voice is murmuring in his ear. "Hey, it's all right. You're here, right? You okay?"

_He's been told to take it, so he does. He opens his mouth even though something from deep inside and far away insists that this is so wrong._

"Bucky." The TV's off now and Steve's hugging him and pulling his bleeding hand away from his mouth.

"Shit," Bucky's shaking and sickened and he has some idea of what's coming. He's trying so hard to stop it. He doesn't want to know this, but it's creeping over him anyway. He tries to hold tighter to Steve and he tries to shut the door but he's just too weak and he knows it's coming no matter what.

The feelings hit first. Confused and sick, wrong and scared. Want. 

"Buck," Steve's frowning at him, "Can I ask you something? You don't have to answer, okay? I just _—_ when you were with HYDRA, did anyone ever...did anyone make you do anything like that?"

 And the credible answer _—_ _I don't remember _—__ freezes in his throat for just a second too long. He  _wants_ to not remember,  _tries_ not to, but the door is bursting open now and

_The first time the Commander does not lead him back to the chair upon the return from a mission, the Soldier is confused, but does not question it. He is led into a small and dimly-lit room. He quickly takes in his surroundings and notes the soundproofing on the door, the slick white floor sloping down to a crosshatched drain in the middle, the hose coiled on the far wall. This room is designed for the specific purpose of torture._

_The Soldier tenses—has he done something wrong? As far as he is aware he has performed within mission parameters and he quickly scrolls through the list of instructions that he recited back to the Secretary before his departure, trying to figure out what it is he missed. He comes up blank, but he will be informed as to what he has done, and he will take his punishment without a word of complaint._

_The Commander orders him to strip off his tactical gear, which is discarded in a pile in the corner of the room. Naked, he is told to get on his knees, and he does. The hard tile will become uncomfortable but not unbearable. There must be more to his punishment than this. He waits passively while his wrists are bound behind his back with a rope, which is then pulled tight to lash his hands to his ankles. The Soldier is left bent back, his head tilted up to look at the Commander towering over him._

_"Hold that position," the Commander instructs, "and don't break those ropes,"_

_And he is eager to redeem himself for whatever it is he has done, so he does not. He is capable of maintaining such positions for hours, and has done so on several stakeout missions, but on stakeout missions he knows what he is doing and why. He does not understand the purpose of this punishment and he dreads what is to come, but he pushes down his fear and holds the position._

_The Commander takes his time getting to the Soldier. He walks slow circles around him, inspecting, and the Soldier wants to turn his head and search for approval in the Commander's gaze. A quiet but firm "stay still" keeps his eyes locked on the spot where the wall and the ceiling meet._

_He can hear the Commander drawing near. Each footstep resonates in his stomach, and a series of strange rustling noises has him wondering what is happening behind him, but he keeps his gaze trained on the wall until the Commander darkens his peripheral vision and swoops to breathe "Good," in his ear. The Soldier barely has time to relish that before his hair is grabbed and his head yanked back._

_On instinct, he attempts to lash out, only to be held back with a sharp pain in his wrists. The ropes, he remembers. He has been instructed not to break them, and so he goes still as he hears what sounds like a buckle clicking. He struggles again—he can't help it—when the Commander's penis is pressed up against his lips._

_"Hold still, dammit!" The Commander hisses above him, and then, "Fucking take it—"_

_And so the Soldier goes rigid, ignoring the complaints from his muscles, and opens his mouth. Somehow he knows something about this isn't right at all, that there's _—__

_Then his hair is yanked again and the Commander is choking him and shoving into his mouth, farther and farther, grunting and rasping, and the whole time jerking the Soldier around by his hair. This behavior is unpredictable and unending; he doesn't know why it is happening or when it will stop. Though the Soldier has survived near-fatal wounds and brutal punishments somehow this has him more frightened and confused than he—_

"Shit," Bucky's panting and disoriented and nausea's rising in his throat, "Trash can." Steve's gets wastebasket in front of him and he holds onto it, gagging and heaving. This memory is receding but he can sense so many more where it came from and he doesn't know when they'll hit.

"I'm sorry, Buck. I didn't know, I'd never have _—"_

"I didn't know either," Bucky says through clenched teeth, "Right till now. Not your fault, I _—_

_a memory hitting home, a feeling this time, blinding and he won't be able to put a name to it for years later but this is the worst sort of shame and a kind of pain in him he doesn't want to name and there's, fuck, there's something like longing there too if the Soldier could have any such feeling, there's _—__

He's rocking violently now. "Fuck, Steve, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm _—"_  and then he really is throwing up and he doesn't even know anymore what he is apologizing for. Too many damn things he's done to find a place to start, and that's just what he  _remembers._

Steve's rubbing his back. "Bucky, it's all right. What they did to you _—"_

"It's not like I tried to stop it _,"_  the words keep wrenching out of him despite himself, coming from a boiling place in his stomach.

Steve's hand has stilled. "Bucky, they never gave you a choice. That's not your fault." 

But that's the thing, isn't it? "It was just like anything else they wanted," he admits to the trash can. "I was so fucking _—_ I just let them tell me what to do and I got right on the fucking floor and _—_ is it really a surprise? They'd tell me, put a bullet through a man's eye 'cause you're shaping the future. Good fucking job torturing people, you're saving the world." He is appalled and terrified by the words that are spilling out, but he can't stop. "Is it really surprising if I fucking took it every which way hoping for a pat on the head _—_ " he's biting down on his wrist, leaving sores that will be healed by morning.

Steve's rubbing his back again. "Like you had any other option. None of this is your fault, Buck,"

_("Make it hurt," Kubiak had urged in the van on the way there, "Make her bleed, Soldier" and so he digs his blade in at the woman's soft belly, vivid crimson lines seeping into her shirt. He eases it under her skin. She's howling, screaming for him to stop, and he takes no notice. They all scream for him to stop._

_Twenty minutes later she is dead in a pool of blood, her secrets etched into his mind to be relayed to the Secretary. He glances to the doorway where Kubiak is watching, anticipating the gleam in her eyes. He must have seen it before, because somehow he knows that means he has done well.)_

_None of this is your fault,_ they keep saying, and he can never quite believe it.

Gradually his stomach settles. Steve guides him, shuddering and weak, down to the mattress. Bucky lets himself be held and spoon-fed reassurances, riding out a myriad of feelings and swells of memory. For a while, that's all there is, Bucky's face buried in Steve's shirt, Steve stroking his hair and holding him and reminding him not to hurt himself.

"You want to tell me what happened?" he offers. Bucky shakes his head. He doesn't want to detail for Steve just how damn low he got. 

Just how...how damn...

_The Soldier sits cross-legged on green shag carpet in the corner of the room. He is meant to remain dignified and in position to carry out orders, but Rumlow said it doesn't matter, everything's gone to hell, anyway. He thinks he heard someone else say that, once. Useless to know, but he can't help trying to chase the thought, running into a gap (a gorge? A ravine?) in his mind. The memory wasn't necessary, so the techs disposed of it. He thinks they'll be careful to dispose of this one, too. He shouldn't know where his handlers live._

_The STRIKE team is staying in an apartment occupied by Agent Murphy. They were supposed to return to HYDRA this evening, but the mission had become far more complicated than intended. Police had been called to the scene, and though they departed before the officers had arrived, Rollins had pointed out that a couple of cars seemed to be following them. Then there had been crossfire; Anders and the Soldier had had to shoot from the open back of the van, presenting easy targets for bullets. Anders's small body hung out into 70-mile-an-hour traffic while he sat on her legs with his full weight to keep her from flying out. Despite her evident distress, the Soldier later noted that she'd maintained a calm and controlled composure. She has performed commendably in every way._

_But that could not prevent news coverage from capturing the whole thing, and they were unsure if they'd managed to take out all of their tails. They couldn't risk leading any unwanted attention back to HYDRA; Murphy's apartment was expendable, and if it was compromised, Murphy could simply relocate to someone else's home._

_"Really," Rumlow had said, "You're willing to let him fill your fridge with soy milk and tofurkey and listen to Taylor fucking Swift at three in the morning?"_

_"Not big on the T-Swift ," said Anders, "which is why he'll be staying with you."_

_"Like fuck," Rollins interjected, "You should've seen how long he sulked last time Murphy took his AXE away."_

_"He was doing the world a favor, Boss. You're a locker room on legs. Seriously, though, he can stay at my place. I bet Rowan would like having him around."_

_"Until he decides to move his army of house pets in with you. How many cats does he have now?"_

_The Soldier does not understand their apparent disdain for Murphy; the agent is capable and competent within his work parameters, and due to his proficiency in a department requiring a very specific skill set, he is highly valuable._

_He is also the caretaker for six small animals that the STRIKE team calls 'cats'. He believes they frequent households, but not usually in such numbers. Upon entering the apartment, he had heard Murphy talking, and had stiffened—civilians were not supposed to see him, at least not if they were meant to live—but Murphy had been addressing the cats._

_The Soldier had not understood why he had smiled when one of the cats brushed past him, twining around his legs and emitting a noise that was high-pitched but not unpleasant. "Aw, Winter, Steve likes you!" Murphy had gushed, "Go on and pet him. He likes when you rub his head, or—"_

_"Please tell me you did not name your fucking cat after Cap," Rumlow demanded._

_"Ask him about the little Siamese" Anders muttered._

_"He likes AXE!" Murphy's cheeks were pink, "and he—"_

_"Fuck's sake," said Rumlow._

_Murphy had scooped up Steve and placed him in the Soldier's arms and, as instructed, the Soldier stroked his head. The cat did seem to enjoy that, rubbing his face on the metal fingers. The Soldier felt his smile growing wider. "Look at Winter!" Murphy had exclaimed, "He likes Steve. You like cats, Winter?"_

_The Soldier did not know how to answer that. He thought that he liked this cat, but there was a small white one yowling and running back and forth through the apartment. The Soldier found the noise grating._

_"I'm not the creepy bald one, right?" Rollins settled on the couch._

_"Nope," Anders said, "That's Pierce."_

_"Alexander!" Murphy protested, "He isn't creepy. He looks a little different, but he's hypoallergenic and he's highly protective of Winter—"_

_But the others were laughing over him and that made the Soldier nervous for reasons he couldn't explain. He felt agitated and drained and confused. He was likely in need of maintenance, but he would not get it tonight. Instead, he made do with a hasty retreat to the corner, where he's been sitting and stroking Steve's soft, delicate head, over and over. The cat is nuzzling his chest in apparent enjoyment. It is strangely rewarding and the Soldier feels calm again._

_Some of their conversation drifts through his head. Most of it is inconsequential and he lets it roll back out again._

_"The hell is your cat doing to my shirt?"_

_"Are you wearing AXE? I told you, it's the AXE. Go on and pick him up..."_

_"Izzy, please tell me you have food that isn't glorified rubber covered in yardwork. I'm sorry, it has been a rough-ass day and I need a fucking hamburger. Or something deep-fried. Something that isn't tofu salad."_

_"What about food the asset can eat? We've got protein powder and granola bars...might not be enough after today."_

_"Can Winter eat tofu?"_

_"Have him try it. I want to see the look on his face."_

_"Wonder what would happen if we gave him a beer. Or maybe some of the vodka?"_

_"It's been done. Have you read the list of incident reports? It fucks up his stomach, bad."_

_The Soldier is unaccustomed to eating food, but perhaps he should. It occurs to him that shakiness, weakness, and irregularities in temperament are all symptomatic of malnutrition and unstable blood sugar. He might feel less volatile if he was fed._

_Sustenance is usually provided via a tangle of plastic tubes or canisters of nutritionally enhanced beverages. It's likely he has had to eat food on missions before, but if he has, he does not remember. He's still trying to figure out how to phrase his need when he hears Rumlow say, "Like that's a problem? You know we have someone who will do anything you tell him to, exactly how you want?"_

_The Soldier thinks this means him and is nervous. He wonders if he should report his instability, in case it affects his capabilities._

_"Jesus," Anders says,"You can't just go on Tinder like normal people?" She drinks from a clear bottle and makes a weird face._

_"It's the hair," Rollins says, setting an emptied bottle on the table, "The asset's set his standards too damn high." The Soldier tenses when Rumlow punches Rollins, but a fight does not ensue. "I wish I could tell you he's never taken Winter back to our place and gelled him a Mohawk, but..."_

_"We were really fucking drunk, okay? You're the one who took pictures."  Rumlow snaps as Anders's head sinks to her knees. The Soldier wonders if she feels sick or faint, but no one else seems alarmed. Then Rumlow's towering over him, pulling him to his feet. The cat falls from his lap and the Soldier cannot help feeling a disproportionate level of distress over the loss. "Steve," slips from his mouth and he tenses, but the others are laughing and laughing._

_"Fuck, Murph. I think you might've compromised the world's deadliest assassin with your house pets."_

_"Steve..." the Soldier repeats, with a kind of emptiness he cannot describe and does not think is hunger. Perhaps he is compromised._

_They sit him on the couch beside Rumlow, who is surrounded by empty bottles and holding one of the smaller cats in the crook of his arm._

_He is given a plate full of white cubes. In flavor they are not unlike the fluids from the technicians' dull metal canisters, but his face scrunches involuntarily as the stuff pulls apart in his mouth. The bald, wrinkled cat—Alexander—splays out across his lap, biting and scratching at the much smaller one now hiding in Rumlow's shirt. The cat's tiny nose pokes out of the Commander's sleeve, licking at his arm. The Soldier does not recognize the feeling in his chest until he starts laughing._

_"You like the cats, Winter? The little white one's named Winter too, after you. The one you've got there, Alexander, he must really like you, he doesn't usually approach anyone—"_

_"Neither would I, if I looked like that cat," mutters Rollins._

_"—so he must be really fond of you."_

_Alexander's not as calming as Steve was. He isn't soft and he bites into the Soldier's hand until he switches to the metal one. Still, he provides a distraction from the increasingly unnerving shakiness the Soldier feels. He forces down as much tofu as his stomach will tolerate, and soon the shaky feeling begins to go away. He focuses on his renewed clarity and on Alexander, losing track of the conversation around him for a while. When he tunes back in, it is because Murphy is speaking nervously. He pays attention to the things that make handlers nervous._

_"I feel like that would go against some order or another. Because I was reading through one of the manuals and they've got all this stuff you're not supposed to do, it can mess up his head or something, so many little things like mentioning—I mean, I probably shouldn't say it with him here, but there's so many little things that can mess him up and I—"_

_"Murphy. Shut up and watch this." Rumlow nudges him to the ground with his leg. The Soldier is on his knees without thinking about why, Alexander stalking away. He locks eyes with Rumlow, awaiting his command._

_"I'm not..." Murphy mumbles, "I mean, he can't really say no, can he? And a high percentage of victims are pressured into situations where they feel they can't refuse, and he actually can't."_

_"Were you really thinking about doing that, here? How fucking drunk are you?" Rollins cuts in._

_Drunk. The Soldier realizes that the bottles being passed around contain alcohol._

_"Haven't had more than you." Rumlow's eyes never leave him and he sits as still as he can. "How about you, Anders? Think he's pretty?"_

_"Prettier than you, no matter how long you spend on your hair." Anders tips back the bottle. The Soldier thinks he has had alcohol before and liked it, but he is not allowed to ask for unnecessary things and she doesn't offer him any._

_"Like you should talk."_

_"I'm not the one who overspent our annual budget on hair gel, thank you." She nudges the bottle toward Rollins with her foot._

_"Poor Winter," Murphy says, "Look at him, he must be so confused. Today's been a weird day, huh?"_

_And he runs his hand over the Soldier's head. Without thinking he pushes into the agent's touch like the cats had, seeking more. Murphy smiles and rubs the Soldier's hair. "He's just like a kitty!"_

_"He's our most highly trained operative, not a fucking kitten."_

_He closes his eyes and leans his head back as Murphy's hand runs through his hair again. "He is just like a kitty cat. Aren't you?" He giggles and kisses the Soldier's ear, smelling strongly of something chemical. The alcohol, probably._

_"Murphy, for the love of God, never say that again."_

_The Soldier didn't make the decision to curl himself up against Murphy. It just happened at some point. He is tired, but he will not be allowed to sleep. The others will need to rest first, and he'll be assigned as a guard._

_Soon the agent's head slides down against his shoulder and his clumsy arms encircle him. The Soldier freezes; Murphy is heavy and warm and he feels like he shouldn't even breathe too suddenly. Slowly and gingerly he leans over onto Murphy's chest, and Murphy squeezes him tighter. The other three are laughing._

_"He's wasted. Thinks the asset's a teddy bear."_

_"So does the asset. Hey, does anyone have a Sharpie? We all know the rule about passing out at a party."_  

_"I have to get this on camera. Soldier, look at me." Anders commands. He turns his head carefully so as not to wake the lightly snoring Murphy. The entire moment feels delicate and fragile, as though it could fall apart at any moment. Then a light flares in his eyes and he cringes, blinded._

_"Shit. I forgot I put the flash on."_

_"Doesn't matter. He's out cold."_

_"Well. Now that our conscientious objector's passed out..."_

_"You're serious, Brock? Sorry, Julie, I warned you. Total octopus when he drinks, all over everything."_

_"What the hell, let him. Today's gone to hell and I almost died. And we're all fucking drunk."_

_"Just...this does not leave this room. We never speak of it again."_

_"What happens on Murphy's couch stays on Murphy's couch," Anders is laughing a little in a weird kind of way._

_"Damn right it does, or we're all fucking dead," Rollins mutters, "For fuck's sake. I'll keep watch, make sure those assbags from before don't track us down. Just so you know? I hate you both."_

_"You love us and you know it. You're a marshmallow over your drunk octopus over there." Anders sways heavily, legs buckling. She remains upright, but the Soldier makes a note to keep an eye on her. She is small, more susceptible to alcohol poisoning than Rollins or Rumlow. Already her speech makes little sense; Agent Rollins does not in any way resemble a marshmallow._

_Then Rumlow is pushing him down to the carpet. A little whine escapes him as Murphy's arms slip away. Fumbling hands are working to remove his clothes and now he knows what's next. He lifts his knee so that Rumlow can maneuver his pants off._

_Soft hands trace over his stomach and chest and the Soldier feels the same melting feeling as when he is bathed after removal from the cryogenic tank. He does not recall the Commander being this gentle. Rumlow leans over his shoulder, brushing kisses down his jaw. The Soldier lets out a sigh, leaning into them, and he is beginning to think this time might not be so bad when Rumlow's full weight hits him, pushing him down onto all fours. He stiffens, which he's not supposed to do, but no rebuke comes. Instead soothing hands brush over his chest and down his thighs until he relaxes._

_Still, he knows what's coming. This is a rare occurrence, but the Soldier has done it before. Unlike the other things, he never gets used to this one. It hurts every time. He resists the urge to throw Rumlow off as his ass is spread._

_"Does anyone have lube? Or something?" A finger slides in and works slowly in and out._

_"You don't?" Anders is rummaging through her pack._

_"Why the fuck do you take lube on missions?" Rollins asks from over by the window. Rumlow's pushing deeper, then deeper still, gradually increasing the pressure inside him. The Soldier's breathing picks up._

_"It's good for unsticking his arm when the fucking thing jams. And about a million other things besides."_

_Then a glob of cold, slippery stuff is being slid all around his bottom and up inside him. It lets Rumlow's fingers in easier and the Soldier begins to relax. His other hand is sliding lower, lower down, making him feel tickly at first and then something more, something he doesn't remember. None of this is familiar; Rumlow usually wastes no time. The Soldier thinks he prefers this._

_"You're fucking filming this?" Rollins's voice cuts the silence, "Do you have any idea what a risk—"_

_"Ssh!"_

_Rumlow's hands wrap around his thighs, spreading him wide open. The Soldier braces himself, but slippery stuff or not, it hurts. Still, he's taken worse pain in silence. The only sound is the rasp of Rumlow's breath, heavy and reeking of alcohol. He's whispering softly in his ear and rubbing him and holding tight but still pushing in and out, picking up speed and it it hurts, it hurts, it—_

_Suddenly Rumlow's free hand is wrapped around his own dick and between the pushing in and being pulled back and forth the Soldier gets the idea to thrust into his fist. This is something new and he's gasping with the entwined pleasure and pain and sudden understanding of why the agents do this. He squeezes his eyes shut and focuses on the mounting intensity. Rumlow's shoving harder and harder now but the pain doesn't matter, overridden by the new sensation. His thighs are taut, his whole body quivering._

_"Damn," Anders breathes, "he's gorgeous."_

_When kisses flutter along his jawline again he leans his head back to press into them, arching his back and gasping. In his peripheral vision he notices Anders moving closer, phone extended._

_Rumlow's breathing hard into his neck, shaking and shoving in faster and faster until the Soldier thinks he may be ripped apart and then all at once he sighs and goes limp._

_The pain recedes but it's still considerable and the Soldier feels as though he may be damaged. Suddenly weak and exhausted, he wants to collapse on the ground, but Rumlow's hand is still pulling at his dick. "Go on, you earned it."_

_He is not to refuse rewards. He's gasping with the last vestiges of his endurance and shoving into Rumlow's cupped hand, the feeling building and building, rejuvenating him and keeping him going. The pain recedes once again, taking a backseat to the wanting. It intensifies, surging and surging and he wants, he wants—_

_When it reaches its peak he gasps and rides out the waves of pleasure, spraying cum over the carpet and onto his hands. On some unknown instinct he licks the warm stickiness from his fingers. Anders brings her phone still closer._

_The hurt is coming back now and the Soldier believes he must be damaged quite badly. The stickiness is spilling uncontrollably from his ass, dripping down his thighs and onto the carpet. Suddenly everything about this feels frightening and dirty and he's not meant to cry so he keeps on licking and sucking at his fingers to keep calm, deeply and overwhelmingly ashamed. He is the Soldier and he is not supposed to be afraid or weak or small, but he is._

_Later, once Rollins has handed him his clothes and the team has fallen asleep on the floor, the Soldier returns to Murphy, seeking the warmth and tenderness from earlier, but the man is deeply asleep. Still, the Soldier curls against him and feels less afraid. Murphy's voice and demeanor are benign and affectionate and the Soldier never knew he craved those things until now._

_So far, all has been quiet, but the Soldier remains ever alert. If the STRIKE team has been tailed, they will not be caught sleeping. So far, however, he's had nothing to do but stare at the spill of moonlight across the carpet._

_He is not irreparably damaged, as he had so irrationally feared. Already he can feel himself healing and his pain is now bearable. He feels stupid for being as afraid as he was._

_He has recovered from gunshot wounds and torn internal organs and massive blood loss, from hypothermia and from infection and from the capture that cost him his original arm. They've told him about that, how HYDRA's enemies tried to take him apart bit by bit. They only got his arm before HYDRA came for him; he is valuable enough to merit a quick rescue. But even his advanced healing factor couldn't regrow the arm, so they just gave him a better one._

_(That was during the experimental phase. Now he is complete and perfect and highly trained. They'd never get him now.)_

_He thinks he remembers losing his arm, the pain and fear and anger and above him, a smug smile. The bite of a chainsaw and the terrible pain._

_But he survived that, so why does he feel as though this has damaged him beyond repair? Why does he feel as though he hurts where he does not?_

_He thinks he feels similar to the way he does when he realizes that a burst of laughter was a joke at his expense. But there's no laughter now, no joke. And anyway, he tells himself, the laughter always stops when they see him in the field. Then they're properly in awe, then they have respect, just as they should. He's trained for this in ways they could never imagine._

_But...but..._

_He's confused and everything feels so badly wrong. What happened tonight has never happened before. He keeps wondering what it would be like if that was allowed every time?_

_For some reason that thought makes him feel shaky and sick, and he does not understand why. His mind is malfunctioning badly; it must be. That's where the damage lies, not within his body. That would explain why he cannot make sense of anything._

_He just needs to hold out for a little longer. Soon the team will get him to maintenance. He'll report his mental status as non-functional and they will help and they'll take him apart and set him right again. But for now he must wait it out. He is strong and he can do this._

_The cats seem to understand that he has need of grounding. The small Winter cat has finally settled down, nestled in the crook of his arm, and Alexander's warm weight rests on his chest. Steve is curled around his head as if to protect him. Occasionally he pokes his nose against the Soldier's face or licks his hair._

_The other small cat is contentedly chewing on the Commander's shirt. It no longer makes the Soldier feel like laughing._

_"Steve..." he murmurs in the darkness, and for some reason saying it gives him something to hold onto, something he doesn't understand and doesn't try to. "Steve..."_

"Jesus," Bucky mutters, burying his face in a pillow and curling his body around it. " _Jesus_..." his insides are shriveling up in shame and he just wants to stay like this forever.

"You back with me?" Bucky nods into the pillow.

There are stinging marks up and down his arm. He must be leaving smears of blood on the sheets, but Steve doesn't mention it. 

The memories aren't done with him yet. By the swelling feeling in his throat, they're just getting started. It's coming faster and faster now. There's a wave of something far worse rising in his mind and he's too weak to try and stop it. He grabs onto the pillow and waits.

_"Your team doesn't tell the Secretary about this?"_

_"You think we're fucking suicidal? Hell, the Secretary probably does shit like this when we're not around. Just don't go running your mouth and we'll be fine."_

_The Soldier is in his usual position today, on his knees with his wrists and ankles bound behind his back. He has learned what is expected of him in this room. When ropes are produced he does not fight them; once they are tied he does not break them. And once he leaves the chamber, his lips are sealed regarding what has happened within. The Soldier knows about being quiet, understands the necessity of keeping secrets. He does not understand the purpose of these particular secrets, nor the work he does in this chamber, but it gives the handlers far more satisfaction than any other type of mission._

_The satisfaction is what matters; it is the Soldier's system of guidance and it is what brings him validation._

_And there are other rewards, too. Sometimes Agent Rollins comes to watch, and if the Soldier is good, then Rollins will slip bites of sticky sweetness into his mouth. Food is a rare treat. And once, while they waited for his cuts and bruises to heal, Agent Pieraccini held him and gently combed out his sweaty hair, twining it into braids and brushing it free again. After the strain of that day's session, that reward had the Soldier melting, contentedly tired, his eyes falling shut and his head sliding down against Pieraccini's chest while the agent murmured soothingly in his ear. The Soldier is made to forget many things, but that has remained deep within his mind, and the craving for a repeat has since been unceasing._

_Agent Pieraccini is not present today, but Rollins is here, standing silently in the corner, and the Soldier has come to anticipate the sweetness that accompanies the agent's fingers in his mouth._

_"Whatever you want, Kubiak. But remember, it's twenty to each of us for every ten minutes you take with him. He's fucking priceless. We can't just go giving him away."_

_"Like he's even yours to give."_

_"You want to see if you have the pull to get the time alone with him? Or d'you want to try explaining that request to Pierce?"_

_Rumlow's pants are already unzipped, so the Soldier knows at least one of the tasks he will be performing today._

_Kubiak is stripping her clothes off. She's much less self-conscious than some of the others. The Soldier is no stranger to the enhancement of torture, knows that often exposure goes a long way when the goal is discomfort and fear. Surprisingly, the handlers can also be vulnerable to this unease, waiting hesitantly for someone else to remove their clothing before suiting up themselves. But Kubiak tosses her tactical gear over her shoulder without a second glance and strides over to the Soldier with the same ease and grace she demonstrates in the field._

_Her bra hits Rumlow in the face and slides to the floor. Given the aim she has demonstrated, the Soldier believes this was purposefully done._

_Like with himself, it is her left arm that is so beautifully marred. Crouching in front of the Soldier, she holds his gaze and offers it out, and by now he knows her well enough to guess what she wants him to do. He pokes out his tongue and she gives him that little smile that lights a spark in his chest. Encouraged, he bends as far as his bonds allow, licking up her wrist, over her ridges that show where she learned. As he encounters each scar the Soldier wonders what lesson it taught.  He works right up to her elbow, and she motions for him to do it again._

_He does, and she exhales softly, the sound echoing in the space between their bodies. The Soldier is nearly at ease—of all the things this room requires of him, this has by far been the easiest—when her other arm encircles him and the blade pricks the back of his neck._

_The Soldier stiffens but knows better than to stop licking before she has told him to. This wouldn't be the first time they've inflicted pain or drawn blood in this room, but Kubiak is on a level of her own. He's seen her eyes gleam viciously at brutalities and at torture, at terror and agonized screams. The care she puts into devising each new technique borders on hunger and on something else the Soldier can't quite pinpoint. There's a little of it in her eyes when she watches him lick his blade shiny and clean again. It is fervent and intense and unrelenting._

_And for this moment, the Soldier is all hers._

_He braces himself as, almost gently, the blade traces a sweeping line down his back. The sting is soon to follow. Her left hand sweeps gently across his back and her fingers come up smudged in red. He knows what to do when she holds them out. An image comes to mind of licking up berry juice and though he does not know where it comes from he almost expects her fingertips to taste sweet._

_"Can you be strong for me?" she murmurs against his shoulder with another stinging stroke of the knife. "Let's see..." the blade skids against his ribs and he quivers..."how still and quiet you can be. I know you can do it." The last words are low and breathless and surging with intensity; but for that, the Soldier might think this was an exercise in obedience or resilience._

_The next stroke comes up over his shoulder, and sinks deeper, blood running down from the wound over his chest. She leans in to kiss away the rolling droplet, her hair tickling his chin, then raises her bloody lips to his. This part he knows; he kisses back until her mouth tastes clean._

_Then things get difficult. The slashes come down over his abdomen and his arms, faster and deeper and it's a struggle to keep quiet. His breathing is wet and ragged, punctuated by grunting as the tip of the blade probes at the sensitive spots she knows so well. He envisions a map layered in rivers of flame emblazoned on his skin._

_She brings the tip of the blade down the side of his head, looking him straight in the eye. He forces his face to remain impassive, but there's that cruel luminosity in her eyes and he knows she sees the fear in his. She's trained to see fear, to read it like an instruction manual. Her breathing has grown heavier and she begins another meticulous cut, this time at the soft flesh of his cheek._

_He is vaguely aware of Rollins saying, "Christ, Olivia, how far—"_

_"He can take it," she murmurs, working the knife down his thigh. Unexplored territory; a new pain erupts. Bootsteps echo on the tile as Rumlow comes to stand behind Kubiak, looking the Soldier in the eye. He appears enraptured and a little awed, and the Soldier likes when the Commander looks at him like that. He laps blood off Kubiak's skin with renewed energy._

_"All right," the Commander says, eyebrows raised, "let's see what he can take."_

_The Soldier is trembling, searing deeper and deeper, each kiss to his skin a fresh burn, but still sucking away the blood running down Kubiak's face even as he desperately wishes for this to end. He's not sure how much further she'll go. Already guttural groans are wrenching from his throat, unbidden, his hands tugging at the ropes despite his best efforts to still them. Kubiak shushes him and kisses him silent, palms running slick over his sliced arms. He freezes to keep from howling. He will not fail; he will not disappoint. Kubiak is moaning a little and this means the Soldier is doing well, and over her head the Commander watches, intent. The Soldier holds his gaze until the knife scrapes lower over his abdomen and down some, circling, threatening—_

_he jerks against the ropes, gasping, and then he cries out as something hot and stinging pours over the open wounds on his thighs. He is aware of laughter in the background and his insides shrivel as he realizes his failure. His bladder is releasing and Kubiak's clicking her tongue, shaking her head. His stomach falls through the floor and his head drops, splattering blood on the tile, as he realizes this is not a mistake he can correct. He cannot take it back. But he can be stronger than this, he can. He wants a second chance, longs to prove that he is not weak. But the clear stream dilutes and dissipates the red, carrying it down toward the drain and telling an entirely different story. The Soldier burns with shame and though he tries he cannot stop the flow hissing against the floor._

_"Not quite so strong, hmm?" Kubiak murmurs, and the Soldier has to blink away the sting in his eyes. "This'll have to do, for today. You'll get there, though." And relief floods over him. He will be given the chance to get this right, to prove himself._

_Kubiak gets to her feet and stands over him, feet planted wide apart. The Soldier does not need to be told what to do. He opens his lips and presses his tongue against her thighs, sliding up into the space where she guides him, her fingers entwined tightly at his scalp, yanking. Ignoring the pain radiating throughout his body, the Soldier presses his tongue harder and harder, right in the place that's making her shudder and gasp. When she finally slides down to the floor, he slumps against her though he has not been told he may release his position, but she cradles his head against her chest and murmurs a "Yes, good," against his hair._

_Then she whispers that he knows what to do. Though he is exhausted, he dutifully sticks out his tongue and laps at each proffered body part until he has licked her clean of his blood._

_When Kubiak rises, his eyes lock on her smile, warm and satisfied and heating his chest. "All right, Bossman." Still stark naked, she claps Rumlow on the shoulder. "He's all yours."_

His head is swimming in a deep dark place. Then, bright lights and vague pains all over his skin.

"...started ripping himself apart," a deep voice is swirling all around him. This is an unfamiliar place, but the voice is reassuring. It's Steve's voice, Steve's. He holds onto that. "I couldn't stop him and I couldn't get him out of it, so JARVIS had to call in the others. He calmed down when we injected him..." a heavy sigh, "...I hate to do that. It feels like something they would do. Drug him quiet whenever he..."

 _Drugged._ The spinny feeling around his head like he's being sucked downward makes perfect sense now. It's the drug they...the special drug the doctors gave him before. And he's drugged because... _oh._

When he tries to move his arms and legs are pinned to the bed and he's vulnerable and exposed in restraints and he knows what restraints mean and he can't help wheezing and straining and screaming, screaming in his mind.

His muscles won't really cooperate, though, so he ends up whining and tugging helplessly, bright lights staring down hot and intense and whirling around and around. He's starting to feel sick and he can't stop, he just wants to get away he just wants it all to—

A hand pushes down on his shoulder and it's bad to struggle, he's failing, he's going to be punished, but—

"Bucky, hey, stop. I'm sorry. You're safe. I'm sorry, but we had to hold you down because you were gonna get hurt. Okay? We're not gonna do anything to you, I promise." Steve's hand is gripping his and he's squeezing back, hanging onto Steve to make everything stop fucking spinning, but as soon as he can feel the haze of the drugs wearing off he desperately wishes it would come back. The fear and the nausea are creeping back into his body and he's fighting the restraints, he can't do that but he also can't help it, he wants to cover himself and curl into a ball and not be tied down like this, not after what _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _—___________

As he listlessly jerks from side to side he becomes aware that he's cold and soaked, all up his waist and down his legs. A whimper escapes him and he shifts on the bed, hoping desperately that he hasn't—that—

"Don't worry about it, okay? Tony's gone to get some clothes for you. And we'll let you up as soon as it's safe." Steve's stroking his hair. His face burns and he tugs fruitlessly against the bonds that hold him securely to the bed. God, everyone who's been in here must have  _seen_ and all he wants to do is curl up in a ball and hide forever and here he is  _strapped down._  "And as soon as they get you some stitches. You kind of tore yourself up pretty bad, Buck."

Steve's really bad at hiding his fear. Or maybe Bucky's just too good at detecting it.

What did he even do? How many people saw? He doesn't remember and he doesn't want to face anyone ever again.

"M'sry," he tries, but his mouth won't really work.

"It's okay. You're not going to be in any trouble. This isn't your fault, any of it. I'm so sorry, Bucky, this is _my_ fault. I know you hate this, I know—"

"S'not your fault," Bucky's tongue finally manages, albeit clumsily, to form words. He turns his head to bury his face in Steve's hand, still trying to hide. The room's spinning again. "Was gonna happen...if the mem'ries were there...hiding..." he's having trouble following his own train of thought so he lets it go swirling up into the ceiling and closes his eyes. The lights really are too bright and he's uncomfortable down where he wet himself, cold and itching where he can't reach. 

He's debating whether or not he's still actually got any dignity left to lose, because he's considering sucking it up and asking Steve to take the wet, clinging pants off of him. Before he can make up his mind, he hears another presence in the room. "Okay, we're going to get him cleaned up and then we'll stitch him. So I'm actually going to numb him now to make sure he really can't feel it when we start sewing him up." Which sounds like a great idea, except Bucky makes the mistake of opening his eyes and it's a  _doctor reaching for his arm and_

he knows. He knows it's not a HYDRA tech, he  _knows_ that. So why is he terrified and yelling and fighting the restraints? Even as he does it a part of him wonders why he is ripping his wounds wide open again and slamming his head back against the pillow. Steve's trying to talk to him and tell him he's okay and he can't make his tongue say that he  _knows._

"Sedate him again. The drugs are wearing off," The doctor orders, and  _good_ everything will be calm and peaceful and invisible hands will clean him up and put him back together. But also his brain decides to remember techs ordering for him to be wiped and that makes him start yelling again.

The prick in his arm is welcome. The calm slides back over again with a heavy sort of force he doesn't even try to resist. Then there's just the spinning spinning spinning—

"Steve..." Bucky's saying up into the dizzying vortex, "Steve..."

Only that makes him think of the time he said it to Steve the cat before he knew what it meant and  _the cats, Murphy had cats_.

"Steve!" Bucky says, urgently this time, squeezing Steve's hand tightly. It's the only thing that still feels real.

"I'm here, Bucky, I'm right here, and I promise I would never let anyone hurt you, okay? But you need to try and—

The rest of his words blur together and Bucky's fighting for consciousness now. "What about the cats?"

"Bucky, what—what cats?"

"I have to find out if the cats are okay," Bucky mumbles through numb lips, but he doesn't have the right words. "Steve, get the cats. Steve..."

He gets one more glimpse of Steve's concerned face before he loses control and slides away.

 _It's_ _an unmarked white door all the way down the hall and to the left. That's all it is. But judging by the dread and fear twisting at his core, there is more to this room than that. The Soldier pushes down the feelings and allows himself to be led._

_His stomach twists as they take him past it. He is confused but deeply and inexplicably relieved._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Julie Anders is [bofurrific](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bofurrific/pseuds/bofurrific)'s character, while Isaac Murphy and cats belong to [Lauralot](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lauralot/pseuds/Lauralot). Anders and Murphy appeared with permission.


	2. A Sweet Poison, Yes, but it Will Kill You Just the Same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She should be long gone by now, but she can't bring herself to give it up._
> 
> Former HYDRA agent Olivia Kubiak struggles to come to terms with the aftermath of Insight and what it means for her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp. Apparently there were a few people who actually wanted to read more of this. So it's gonna be a thing, I guess. 
> 
> Chapter title is a reference to Cersei Lannister's advice to Sansa in A Clash of Kings: "Love is poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you just the same."

She  _should_ be long gone by now. Should have headed somewhere nice, somewhere hidden. Should have dyed her hair and built an identity, should be mapping out a plan from Paris or from Quebec or anywhere that isn't here. There's always California, her naïve childhood dream. When she was small, she saw it as an endless stretch of sunshine and palm trees, as a population of movie stars in sunglasses and bikinis, like the pictures in those glossy magazines Cath had in her room.

(Cath. Olivia hasn't spoken to her in years. After Insight she'd briefly entertained the notion of tracking her down, hiding out with her, but quickly dismissed the idea. They lost contact in high school when a job transfer had taken her dad to Tampa. She was sorry to leave, she'd said, but it was a choice between going with her father or living with her bitch mother who took her door off the hinges when she got angry. Olivia had understood. She didn't blame Cath for leaving, but she _was_ a little bitter that she couldn't go too.

Catherine and shiny magazines smelling of new paper, the two girls lying elbow-to-elbow on Cath's bed and dreaming of growing up and moving to California together. Swimsuits, sunshine, pretty mansions behind locked doors and iron gates where no one could get in if you didn't want them to. A child's fantasy, long discarded, but sometimes Olivia still wonders where Cath is and how she's doing.)

Now she could actually _get_ to California, or anywhere else she wanted to go. She has access to a fair amount of cash; she's been saving money in a private account since long before SHIELD. She was taking no chances of getting stuck at home.

Home was her father's unpredictable rage, home was kicking and biting like an animal to fend off Uncle Wade and his roaming hands. It was the faded blue armchair where her mother sat, watching resigned and slack-eyed from behind a bottle, behind the haze of one or five pills too many. Mom, her love as faded as her sunless skin, as faded as her clothing, Mom wearing the same stained shirt and hole-riddled sweatpants she'd had on for weeks,  _Mom, please get up, you need to care, I need you to care._

Home was their dingy apartment and a town full of kids who grouped tighter and tighter together to keep someone like her out. It was wearing faded T-shirts from six years ago and duct-taping her shoes back together for the third time in a month. It was the way her family passed Jasper's ghost between them as they would have done with a living baby. It was her and Jess's unmade bed, their bare mattress and worn blanket, waking up each day to face how badly she'd failed her little sister.

Saving that money had meant one day she might breathe again. She'd wanted to make sure she could get far, far away, and now she can.

But she's still fucking here, drinking insta-coffee and rubbing the familiar ridges up and down her left arm, that God-awful cliché of misunderstood teenagers everywhere. Still here, in this hospital where she really has no business being, just _asking_ to get caught.

Brock Rumlow...what even _were_ they to each other? She's not sure how to define it, and part of her doesn't want to try. God, she hates to admit how much she wanted the man's approval. 

They'd been...maybe, kind of friends for a while, but they'd _really_ connected over the Soldier. And it's the two of them keeping her here. Rumlow, who always pulled himself up out of the wreckage and kept an going with a grin and a snarky quip. And Winter, the thought of him roaming the city, confused and alone, his brain going on the fritz. There's that, too.

If she could just find him. If Rumlow would just pull himself out of the pain one more goddamned time. They could maybe salvage things. They could hide out, hold out. HYDRA would be reborn from its ashes, just like it had been before.

But Rumlow remains drugged out in a hospital bed, his body raw and glistening. Still, she's hung on here, hoping and hopeless. 

 _Get up,_ she keeps begging him,  _Order through pain, remember? You can take this. You can take it. I can..._

But he's just lain there, day after day, drugged out of his mind, his skin crisped and red and angry no matter how much time she gives him.

He's useless now, and that thought kills her, and she doesn't want to think about _why_ it kills her. Because she'd initially been drawn to the man's ruthlessness, his tenacity and his wit and his belief in pushing past limits until you could take anything. He was that belief embodied, and God, she'd never admit to anyone how much she  _admired_ him. 

But here he is, far past his endurance and far past his use, and here she still is, begging and hoping a childish hope. And why the hell would she do that?

There's Winter, too, though. She isn't giving up her hunt. His body hadn't been found amid the wreckage of the helicarrier, and even if he was hurt as badly as Rumlow, she's seen him heal from some pretty serious wounds. Inflicted some, even, just seeing what he could take. She'd made him stronger that way, better, helped to perfect him, and she saw it in his otherwise empty eyes when he looked at her. He  _wanted_ to please her,  _wanted_ her to tell him that he was strong.

In the field he perfectly, brutally efficient, and that was fucking beautiful to watch, but it was  _over_ too quickly, damn it, that was the point of efficiency. It was cold and clipped and without feeling.

But then there were the finer points of the job. Things she hadn't felt the need to include in her reports. He was perfect and she could have him where she wanted him, the two of them a flawless team. Through him she could exact her revenge upon the kind of world that was long overdue to be stripped down. And then she could watch him savor it. Moments that could last, moments that could be just for her.

And he'd come to love it, too. He had that deadly stare perfected, dark shiny eyes taking in everything and reflecting nothing back. Even if you hadn't seen him in action, that stare inspired a cautious sort of awe. And then as soon as the others turned their backs he'd be nuzzling her hand with half-lidded eyes to get his head stroked, licking up her marked arm with a kind of reverence. He understood the scars and what they meant, read them with his lips and fingertips and fluttering eyelashes in those quiet stolen moments between missions and commands. In the times after a session in the Chamber, draped across her lap to heal.

Both sides of him had their draw. One was a secret, though, known only to the trusted few who'd really had the chance to get close to him. And they weren't telling; it'd ruin the legend. HYDRA needed the legend. It had taken forever for Rumlow to even tell her that the Winter Soldier was real, longer till she'd been allowed a glimpse. 

She and Winter and Rumlow...

God _dammit_. That's become her new California, hasn't it? It's just as infeasible, just as unrealistic, and, damn it, she still can't bring herself to give it up.

After yet another day of watching Rumlow for signs of improvement, she hits the streets, looking for some trace of Winter.

He needs someone, she knows that. He's self-sufficient to a point, but by now she knows him well enough to have seen past the ruthless exterior. She knows it's maintained by machinery and guiding words and mechanical tools. He needed HYDRA as much as they needed him. Out of the field, he's so young and so confused. Still so strong, though, tough and growing tougher.

He can't have gotten far. He can read maps, yes, and probably get money, but Winter can't  _eat._ He must be sticking close to a safe house. They're stocked with his nutrition shakes. But none of them had seen the Soldier last she checked; he hasn't reported for maintenance. Perhaps there's some tech genius who can help her get access to public security cams.

She sighs. They've probably been trying that for months.

She won't let herself be overwhelmed with despair, won't let herself sink low. She's going to be okay, because everything she endures serves to strengthen her. Order comes from pain, and so do learning and resilience; she can  _take_ this. She rubs at the scars over her left arm and remembers how much she learned from the times before. She _learned_ , so she never has to go back to that.

She returns to the safe house in the evening. It's almost empty now; most of HYDRA is fleeing the country. They're not  _giving up_ , they say, they're just  _regrouping._ Gail Pieraccini is still here, and Robert Ikorra, and a few others she hadn't worked with before. But they don't plan to stay, and neither should she.

She should keep herself strong and healthy, so she forces herself through the motions of a workout before she goes to sleep. If she's lucky she'll dream of Winter's eyes when he looks up at her, when he's covered in open scars and she wields the knife and he'll let her do anything at all. Of fists hitting the punching bags, the taste of the sparring mat before she gets herself back up again. Of perfecting the world with her finest, sharpest blade, cutting it into neat little pieces, shaping and sculpting and hearing the sound of it bending to her will. Sometimes that sounds like gasping and screaming, but that's as good a sign as any.

If she's lucky, she'll dream of power surging through her veins, watching others' power draining out in red as she opens up their skin. She'll dream of the day she sits atop the world, ridding it of the people who make it dark and shadowy, untrustworthy and chaotic. If she's lucky, she won't dream of home.

She thinks it happens because it's in the time before sleep that she thinks about her family the most. Misses her mother, despite herself. She knows she wasn't wrong to leave, but she still feels a pang when she thinks of Mom, her hazed-out blinking as Dad yelled in her face. Confused, a little intrigued, like she was hearing something from far away and was trying to figure out if she wanted to go looking for it.

She can't help loving her mother. She hates her mother, too, all those years of holding her breath and wearing her bruises like badges, Mom telling her vaguely that that's just how things were. But she can still remember a time when things were _happy_ , when Mom rocked her girls on her lap and sang them songs and whispered promises for the future into their ears. If Dad was distant and vaguely frightening, if Uncle Wade was gross and creepy, at least she'd had her mother, and Jessica. And the prospect of the new baby.

Mom had a tiny little boy growing in her tummy, she'd said, and his name was Jasper Henry, after his father and his father's father.Mom had lived for her babies, both the girls and the unborn boy that swelled her stomach like a watermelon. Daily, she'd let Jess and Olivia lift her shirt and press their palms against the place where the baby grew. Sometimes, if they were lucky, they'd feel him move. All three would hold their breath, and then Mom would smile and the girls' faces would light up in identical expressions of wonder.

Olivia had always known she'd love that baby. She'd loved Jessica as soon as she was born, and even more as she grew. She was already telling her little sister all the things they'd do with Jasper when he finally came out. The girls had spent months swaddling their shared doll in blankets and holding plastic bottles to its lips. They took turns rocking it and changing it and singing it to sleep at night.

That had been when Olivia was six. That year, Jess was only three. Three-year-olds don't always think things through; any child could have made the same mistake. If their father had been helping to watch the girls, she might not have run out into traffic, and if she hadn't run out into traffic, Mom wouldn't have had to chase her down.

Jess, oblivious to the danger in her excitement over a puppy, made it across the street safely. Mom was the one who got hit by a car.

The driver stopped, herded the girls onto the side of the road, and called an ambulance. Thanks to his quick action, Olivia's mother survived. Jasper, however, was so much more fragile. By the time Dad returned from buying coffee, his wife and daughters were en route to the hospital. And by the time he arrived there, Jasper had already been pronounced dead.

Thinking about it, that's always a mistake. Tonight she dreams she's trying to rock her old doll to life, but it just lies in her arms, blank-eyed and plastic. Dad's hovering over her shoulder and she rocks all the more frantically. In the dream she is crying and helpless, and when Dad reaches for the doll she doesn't even try to stop him from taking it away.

She wakes up reaching for her doll, then falls back against the mattress. It was lost long ago, stashed away back when the sight of anything infantlike sent her mother into sobbing fits. She still remembers it in vivid detail, though, its frozen plastic smile and glassy blue eyes.

It's always surprising how badly she aches for Cath in moments like these, no matter how much time has gone by since the two have spoken. They used to send letters, but Cath wasn't much for writing and Olivia got busy with a rigorous training and work schedule after she joined SHIELD. As her position advanced, more and more of her daily life was too highly classified to write about.

Those things she had to skate around, in the early letters? They only served to remind her how unsure she still felt, how inadequate. Joining SHIELD was supposed to make her better, stronger, was supposed to give her power over the world that had only ever tried to take it away from her.

Except the further in she got, the more she realized that the world just refused to stay fixed, that some situations could never be made  _good_ , that everyone was compromising the integrity they liked to project with their logos and uniforms and badges, swearing each other to secrecy in equal measures of solidarity and threat. _Shh_. That's classified. 

And so many times she had to stand by and watch, just like Mom used to do. 

She didn't like feeling unsure and inadequate. She hated the realization that yet another thing she'd idolized was just a pathetic childhood dream.

And Cath was the only one who could have pried that admission from her. So many times, when she wrote to her friend, she was tempted to spill everything, but she really didn't want to get into it. Because if she didn't have whatever it was she'd made of herself, then what hope _was_ there? Who _was_ she, aside from the depressed and isolated teenager she'd been for what had seemed like an eternity? So she buried herself in her training, and when Cath's letters began to dwindle, Olivia made no effort to rekindle their friendship.

She did try to look her up on Facebook a couple times, but maybe she'd gotten married or something, changed her name. Maybe she did eventually get to California. 

She hasn't gone looking in a while. She's not logging into any of her old social media accounts. There's a chance they could be used to track her movements. Still, if she tried, she could probably find her old friend. Maybe lay low with her.

But that would mean questions, that would mean bringing danger into whatever life Catherine may have made for herself. Most of all, it would mean admitting failure, admitting that she'll never reach the places she'd planned to go. And Olivia is never, ever doing that. She'll die first.

At times like these, though, after a dream from home, she'll long for the friend who got her through her shitty childhood. Got her through, even, that horrible, horrible descent into hell after that Buick had plowed Mom into the road. 

On the drive home from the hospital? Olivia and Jess had been  _dead_ silent. Their father had grabbed them each by the hand and all but dragged them outside, their little feet tripping and stumbling in their effort to keep up. He'd shoved them into the backseat with rough, shaking hands. He drove in jerky stops and starts, slamming the brakes, his jaw tense. In that whole time, he hadn't said a word.

When they got home, the girls made a beeline for their bedroom. They never got there; Dad was looming over them, grabbing Jess's arm. He shook her and hit her and she cried out but he took no notice. He kept yelling that she'd killed his son, had almost killed her mother, was she happy? Was she fucking _happy?_

Jess had kept shrieking, "Livy, help!"

Olivia had liked to think she was brave, even when it came to their father. Sometimes she'd get between him and Jessica, take a screaming fit or a slap that had been intended for her sister. She was proud that she could stand up to him; it was worth getting hit to protect Jess. Or so she'd thought, but she'd never seen Dad that out-of-control, like he'd flatten anything in his path. Jess's head flopped back and forth. When her body hit the wall, Olivia felt the impact. She was too stunned to say a word.

That's when she knew she was weak, tiny and terrified and ashamed while her sister screamed for help. As soon as her legs would work again she turned and ran, banging her way out the door, "Livy, help me!" ringing in her ears. She couldn't stay there, she _couldn't_.

She wound up heading for the apartment where Cath lived when her dad had custody. She didn't know where else to go.

She pounded up the back stairwell to avoid the questions from well-meaning strangers. When she knocked on the familiar blue door, Rob had answered. He was a friendly smiling man who confused the hell out of Olivia. She wasn't very used to friendly smiling men. Cath liked staying at her father's place much better than the weekends spent at her mother's. Until Olivia actually met Cath's mother, that hadn't made a whole lot of sense.

The friendly smile faded when Rob saw her face. Cath stepped out from behind his legs. "Livy, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said, slipping around them both, walking into the apartment like it was her home too. Maybe if she acted like it was nothing then eventually it would be.

"You're crying," Cath said, taking her hand and leading her toward the kitchen.

"I'm not crying," Olivia quickly tried to brush away her tears, "Because nothing's wrong. Hey, let's talk about California."

Acting like ignoring her problems will fix them; isn't that basically what she's doing right now? Tomorrow she'll be back in the hospital, asking herself just what she thinks she's doing with her life. Spending half the day there is useless. It isn't productive. Rumlow probably wouldn't even appreciate the gesture; he doesn't tend toward sentimentality.

She'd first met him in the gym at the SHIELD facility. She lived on-site; she'd been offered a small apartment within the building and accepted. When she wasn't fulfilling assignments, she all but lived in the gym. Strength training, emergency-reaction simulations; knife-throwing, too, secretly hoping she'd get a chance to use it. Admittedly, not the most practical skill, but damn if it wasn't badass.

The knifework had tempted her in more ways than one. Sometimes, when she got uneasy, when she woke up from an unnerving dream, the sealed-over skin of her wrist still called for it. She kept trying to remind her arm that she didn't  _need_ it anymore, but her skin wanted the blade anyway. Regularly scheduled psych evals kept her from doing it; upon recruitment her scars had been noted and she'd had to explain their reason for being there, in detail. They knew what to look for now; further injuries would not pass unnoticed, and she didn't want to be pulled off her missions. So she gritted her teeth and flung her blades into the dartboard with a little extra force.

But then there was the other temptation, one that had been calling to her since high school.

She hadn't really realized what it was until Derek. By then she'd already started letting some of the boys around town ask her for certain favors if they'd pay her enough money. It was one of those things she didn't tell anyone. She just didn't look at it like they did. It wasn't such a big deal, and if she made them take her to their place then it kept her out of the house for a while.

Anyway, it wasn't nearly as bad as Uncle Wade's sweaty pawing. 

Derek had been nervous to ask her. He kept saying he didn't want to freak her out, but he'd pay her extra if she let him tie her up. She'd shrugged and said okay. He'd been worried about scaring her, as if anything he could do would come as a shock _._ When she'd been five her uncle had begun offering to pay her in quarters if she lent him her used underwear. She'd taken him up on it, knowing that if she refused he'd take her underpants anyway. That had unsettled her more than any awkward fumbling teenager ever could.

( _God_ , and when her bras and panties appeared back in her room, laundered and wrapped around worn dollar bills...she shuddered every time she donned a garment that he'd touched.)

Being tied up didn't really do much for her, physically. But it _did_ make her realize she wanted...she...

It took her a few days to figure out what it was she wanted. Then she went to Derek's place and told him, point-blank, that from now on _she'd_ be the one to tie _him_. He'd blinked and allowed her to lead him back to his bedroom.

And that was the first time she really  _wanted_ sex in the way that other people seemed to want it. Before, it had been okay, could be nice, even, but this.  _This_ was the best goddamned headrush in the world. Put her on  _fire_ like nothing else could.

That first time, she tied him to the bed like he'd done with her, but soon she figured out better ways to do it. She liked him on the floor, all wrapped up in extension cords. (She still can't fucking believe they used  _extension cords_ ; they hadn't been able to find any rope.) She liked when he looked up at her like she was the entire world. Trust, tentative trust, with just the right amount of fear mixed in. Her intensity surprised him. She kept having to turn his face back to hers when he looked away. 

She got pretty rough in the heat of things, and there was always a moment when he'd just relax and go with it, let her put him where she wanted him. Let her jerk the cords and drag him to the ground and straddle him, pushing his bound hands to the floor. She'd be at his shoulder and neck, biting up and down, pulling at his lips with her teeth, and he'd lean right into her for more. "Good boy," she'd breathed against his cheek, smirking that first time and the look on his face when she said it. She liked to make him lick her, kneeling on the floor while she pulled herself up and over him. Afterwards, still naked, they'd watch TV and she'd hold him and pet his chest and tell him he'd been so fucking good. _  
_

He'd never admitted that he liked it, probably never could, but after a while he'd be hard as soon as she started twirling the cord around her wrist. She'd smirk and twirl it over her head, make him follow her around and ask her for it, and then she'd turn and throw herself against him and pin him to the floor, nipping at his shirt with her teeth.

Derek. Funny that she stayed in contact with him, but not Cath. But she's not going to ask to lay low at _his_ place; he's married now, has kids. That'd just make things really fucking awkward. Still, they had a good thing going on for a while. They hadn't been friends, exactly, but they'd had  _something._

And then she'd had to leave home. Things were getting just too bad, even for her. She didn't miss school, didn't miss the city at all, but she missed Derek and whatever it was they'd had between them. She knew she'd have a hard time finding something like that again.

Brock Rumlow caught her eye because he looked so much like Derek. Built a little more solid, though, and his eyes held none of Derek's tentative gentleness. (Even when he'd had her hands bound tightly to his headboard, he had been gentle. Tender, and slow. She was the one who got rough.) Rumlow had a kind of commanding presence. The way he stood, the way he carried himself, they way he looked at the world with a brutal kind of light in his eyes and a smirk on his face...

She's still not sure if  _I want to hit that_ or  _I want to be that_ came first, but those feelings mingled and fed off each other and grew like weeds tangling around her brain.

They didn't talk much, at first, though, because both those feelings unsettled her. It was a little embarrassing how hard she was crushing; she had the feeling Brock wouldn't appreciate any sort of dewey-eyed little-girl sentiment. So they just practiced quietly, those late nights at the gym. He'd watch her, assess her, maybe give her some tips. Sometimes she saw a hint of approval in his eyes, and it made her stand taller. 

Thanks to his training, her rate of improvement in physical capability was off the charts. Her assessments raised eyebrows amid the higher-ups, and she was soon handed off for the mental evaluations that would qualify her to get out in the field.

She and Brock had been talking more by then; she enjoyed the kind of banter that passed between them while they circled each other on the sparring mat or stood side-by side in the shooting range. She hadn't known she was craving it; aside from Cath and her sister and maybe Derek, she'd never had friends. She learned that he was "roommates" with another SHIELD agent. He had exactly one soft spot, and it was for his rescue dog, Max. (Intended as a house guard, but he ended up being a lapdog who savaged couch cushions and freaked out during thunderstorms.) Brock had come from a shitty home, like she had, and like her, he'd forged himself from it.

In return, she started confiding in him a little, every time a mission went sideways, every time someone compromised their morality and whispered to her not to tell. So much pain in the world, so much shit; growing up in her isolated bubble of pain and fear in a small town, she'd always had the illusion that the world was just waiting for people like her, people who could break free and strike back. But no, working for SHIELD opened her eyes pretty fast. The world was just a large-scale version of the shithole she'd just gotten out of. Classified, don't tell, behave like we want or you'll get punished.

And, yeah, in some ways, SHIELD was better. But in too many ways, it just  _wasn't_. She was quickly growing disillusioned, but she didn't want to confide that during her psych evals. Didn't want to sound like she was questioning SHIELD's _authority_ or anything.

But she and Brock had developed a kind of shorthand, a code, that they used to give each other advice during the Insomniac's Workout Schedule. Soon they had a variety of ways to say things without really saying them, to choose what to hear and what to let slip by unmentioned.

And that's how she ended up telling him about her stupid childhood dreams of getting better. Getting braver. Rising above the fear that clouded her head, rising above the pain that somehow was and wasn't real.

He'd quickly set her straight. You didn't rise _above_ the pain, you _owned_ it, you let it _make_ you. That was how you got better. You learned from it, learned what the world really was. Learned what _you_ really were. Once you'd accepted that, you could work with it.

Olivia had tried that advice on for size and had been stunned at how well and how quickly it worked. Once she stopped trying to purge herself of her past, stopped trying to cut out everything she wished she'd done and all she wished she'd been, she'd gained a kind of pride in everything she'd been through. She carried it as a part of her, drew on it for reference when she didn't know what to do.

She could have kissed him the very next time she saw him, for that advice.

There was the good kind of pain, too, sparring, giving each other the bruises and scratches that came from a hard day's progress. There was a rhythm to it; fighting could be like sex in the endorphin high, the rush, the breathless anticipation. Fighting, fucking, both were a kind of dance. She wasn't fucking Brock, but she felt alive and on fire when he was hitting her or throwing her to the mat, pinning her against the floor and breathing "Had enough?" in her ear.

Hearing it always put the fire back in her; she _never_  said she'd had enough.

(If Derek had done it like  _that_ you fucking  _bet_ she'd have let him keep tying her. Brock's the only one Olivia's ever really allowed to take on that role. In her head she's dommed everyone else but Brock would never let her put him there and that's something she can respect. She almost challenged him, considered going head-to-head in a battle of wills just to see which of them would win. That first time with Winter had really tipped the balance of power between them; as time went on, during those sessions in Chamber 5401, she began pushing back and then he'd push harder and she'd grow more defiant and _damn_ that fire had been raging hot.)

Those early days in training, Olivia lived and breathed for the spark of approval in Brock's eyes when she got in a good hit, when she flipped herself out from under him and pinned _him_ instead. They'd be tangled up on the mat, her looking down at him as if to say  _how do you like that, now?_ And he'd be looking up back at her with that laugh in his eyes, that unspoken mark of approval. It was only for the fighting, she knew that, but damn if the fighting wasn't fucking beautiful.

And the close proximity gave him little chances to whisper in her ear. Whisper that the trusted few  _could_ make the world a better place. Like anything that make sense, any kind of order, it didn't come without a little pain. But she understood how that worked, didn't she?

By then, she really, really did. And his voice muttering in her ear, granting her the status as one of those trusted few, well, that may have been more than a little intoxicating.

They'd left the facility to really talk about it; you didn't risk such a conversation in a place that might be bugged. For the same reason, they didn't go to any of their homes; you could never be too careful. It hadn't even occurred to Olivia that SHIELD may have bugged her place, but once she considered it, she knew it wasn't at all beyond the realm of plausibility. So she'd gone with Brock and his roommate to a coffee shop abuzz with chatter, perfect for covering over their conversation.

That was where Brock and Jack had set her straight about HYDRA. They  _weren't_ Nazis, like she'd heard, they explained, and they hadn't died out, either. They recognized the kind of dubious nature of the world SHIELD was trying to create. Recognized that some people used the cover of righteousness to justify their own compromised moralities. HYDRA just wanted to get all the unpleasant necessities done and out of the way, no excuses, and then they could create a world run by the people who actually knew how to handle it. Brock said he thought Olivia seemed like the kind of person who could handle it.

They'd gotten her switched to a different team, one lead by Agent Mercer. Mercer would be her Commander, as Brock was to his own team. Some teams worked together, though, and she'd learn to adapt so that she could successfully work with anyone. That eventually might include the legend himself, although it took a long time before anyone had the qualifications to get close to _him_.

HYDRA gave her the sense of purpose that SHIELD had never delivered. There was an end goal, there was the realism, the evaluation of who was qualified to hold power and who was not. The sense that there really was a grand plan, rather than a bunch of people struggling to keep the world in check.

And it gave her the opportunity to explore the side of her she'd kept hidden since Derek. 

It started when she needed to get answers out of people. It was the same thing she'd done with Derek, with Rumlow on the training mat. She got them where she liked them, got them giving her just what she wanted and then some. All it took was a mastery of a certain kind of art.

And then she got a little addicted, enough that she began to panic. There wouldn't be so much need for the missions, for human forces, once HYDRA had implemented their final plan; their control over the world would eliminate that before it reached the point of needing intervention. 

Then had come Winter.

She'd already heard the legends, by then, heard about HYDRA's most deadly weapon. He could evaluate a person's capabilities at a passing glance. He could fight off a roomful of armed men with only his hands. He could leave them dead on the floor or drop them unconscious without a scratch, if he so chose. He could put a target down from a hundred yards or get close enough to kill them before they even knew he was there. People trained for _years_ to get only  _half_ that good. He was flawless; he was part machine. 

And he was  _theirs._

Commander Mercer and Brock had first introduced her to the Soldier, explaining how the legend was maintained. They usually didn't let newcomers work with him so early, but she had the kind of commanding presence that he responded to so well, and Mercer had thought working with him might benefit her, too.

He stayed in cryogenic storage, which kept him young and fit when he wasn't needed on missions. He went through rigorous mental and physical training, in which she would now be a participant. But most importantly of all, his mind was kept functioning by a form of mental recalibration. Anyone who'd lived as long as he had would have seen too much to keep it all straight, and so all but the basic necessities were removed to retain his level of functionality.

That was why he might not recognize her from mission to mission, especially at first. That was why only certain people worked with him, because they became ingrained so deeply that he learned to respond to them and their commands and their style of operation even when he couldn't exactly remember who they  _were._ She should learn to develop a certain demeanor with him, something simple that he could recognize and work with.

The Soldier's performance had been a breathtaking experience. She could have watched him train for hours, all rippling muscle and rhythmic, fluid motion despite the bulk of his body and the heavy metal arm. 

And when she told him to, he placed himself entirely at her disposal. She saw his curious eyes flitting over the damaged parts of her and tried to explain it right, in a way that she'd never been able to before. And he understood; he looked at her in awe and in respect, just the kind of look that stirred certain parts within her and got her heart surging hard. You weren't supposed to get too personal with the Soldier, but in their own way, everyone did. Rollins was such a sap, carrying Hershey bars and maple candies to feed to him, and Murphy thought he was a fucking house cat. And if he had his hair all braided up, you could bet Gail Pieraccini was behind it.

He was just what she'd been craving. She told him what to do and he settled in for the ride. And with the way he nuzzled her arm when the others' backs were turned, it wasn't much of a stretch to get him to start licking like a big deadly kitten. 

Then she got her first mission to extract information. Her job had been to turn him on the targets; if they were going to end up dead anyway, she might as well get something out of it, right?

Still, she thinks the years changed her. She's done things that would have shocked her younger self. But her younger self was so stupid and naïve despite everything she'd been through. When she finally left home, a few weeks short of her seventeenth birthday, part of her still harbored hope for that mansion in California.

In fairness, it wasn't as though she didn't know how unlikely it was. It's just that California talk had always calmed her. Just having a plan for the future, she thinks, any kind of plan, made the seemingly-endless present seem a little better. And so she and Cath had set their goals, jobs in fashion (Cath) and law (Olivia), side-by-side mansions (or maybe even a shared one, if they could agree on what color to paint it. Olivia wanted white but Cath liked yellow. Yellow was disgusting, Olivia insisted, the color of mustard and pee. But it made Cath think of sunshine, and anyway, she liked mustard.)

She loved to let herself become fully absorbed in the future. That's why she went to Catherine after Jasper died; she hadn't been able to deal with _now._ She was resigned to the inevitable punishment she'd have to face for running away, but the California talk meant better days were ahead. She didn't even flinch when she heard the inevitable knock at the door.

Her father's voice mingled with Rob's. "Yeah, she's here. Is she okay?" Murmuring, then "lost the baby" and "we're all devastated."

Olivia tried to keep Cath talking, tried to stay in far-off California.

When Dad said it was time to go, she knew better than to argue. Cath squeezed her knee under the table before she got up to leave. Out in the hallway, her father asked her what she'd said to Cath and Rob.

"Nothing," she said dully. Only six and already she knew the answer to that question by rote.

"All right," he said, and she breathed again.

In the car, he let her sit up in the front seat next to him. Her stomach was tight, waiting for the other shoe to drop, while he talked about how horrible and sad it was to lose a child. He'd always just wanted a son so _much_. He was sad and upset, he said, she understood that, right? And she nodded, because she had to, and because he was right, Jasper's death was really sad. He took her hand and laced his fingers with hers and she tensed, then realized that she might not actually be in trouble for running away. Maybe he understood that she was just upset too.

So she squeezed onto his hand to steady her heart and let him give her the speech about how sometimes things just got a little out of control and sometimes things went bad and sometimes things had to be kept secret, did she understand that? She knew this speech, and so she nodded and nodded and nodded and slipped in the occasional "yes" or "okay".

"Good girl," he said, and inwardly she smiled. Dad rarely said she was good. It was nice to hear it, even if she knew he only meant he was glad she'd keep her mouth shut.

That's when she realized they'd passed their building a long time ago. She was afraid to ask why, because sometimes questions made Dad mad, but after a while of driving and driving in unfamiliar territory she had to ask, "Where are we going?" Because if Uncle Wade was at work and Mom was still in the hospital, that meant there was no one at home with Jessica. She'd rather Jessica be all by herself than alone with gross Uncle Wade, but still, that wasn't very safe; Jess had already proven that once today.

"Remember what I told you about keeping secrets, Pumpkin?" She nodded, almost glowing inside in spite of everything that had happened. Dad never called her Pumpkin anymore.

He squeezed her hand. "I need your help with something important, and it has to be a secret. Okay?" She nodded again.

"We're going out of the city a bit, okay? There's a place in the woods—you've never been there, but you'll see. It's—I need to bury something super secret. It can even be a game, like playing pirates, okay?"

She felt uneasy all of a sudden, and a horrible thought came to her. "Are we burying Jasper, Dad? Out in the woods? Is that why it's a secret?"

He was slow to answer and he wouldn't look at her.  _That's what it is, isn't it, Jasper's dead body is in here and we're burying him._

"No," Dad said finally, "Jasper will be buried in the same graveyard as Nana and Aunt Ann. Your mom will probably take you to visit him when you go see them."

"But then what do you have to bury?" She asked, and he didn't look at her, and he still didn't look. He stared and stared straight on ahead. Eventually he reminded her to remember what he said about secrets, which wasn't an answer at all, because this was a secret that she was supposed to be in on.

Olivia's stomach twisted when she finally realized. She heard an echo, Jess screaming. _Livy, help me! Help!_

She squeezed Dad's hand hard to keep from puking all over herself, and she nodded and nodded and kept whispering, "Okay, Daddy. Okay. Okay."

She shakes her head; she was stupid to start thinking about this in bed. If she tries to go back to sleep now Jess will haunt her. In her most frequent dream, her sister's corpse is curled up against her in their shared bed back home, clutching that old doll. Girl and toy, staring at Olivia with identical wide-eyed smiles. She always wakes up stiff as a board, unable to bring herself to push her sister away. Part of her could happily live her whole life without once reliving that dream. The other part of her just wants to see Jess again.

She sighs and gets up for an early-morning workout.

She tries to tell herself to face it, by now if Winter's not in custody he's dead. But she _can't_ face that, she  _can't._ The rides in the back of the van, crammed knee-to-knee, heads touching. He'd be exhausted; if he'd done well, she'd let him rest his head against her. The way those vacant eyes came alive when he looked at her. There was no one in the world like him, and there never will be again. He can't be gone. He can't.

She's never been the type to get weak over another person, but Winter has always been different. He isn't exactly a person; he's more human than anyone else in this whole goddamned world. To this day Olivia can't decide which.

She won't give up looking for him. No matter what she has to do, no matter how far the programming's broken down or what's happening to his mind, she'll get him through this. She makes this silent promise again and again on her way to the hospital. As she gets her styrofoam cup of shitty coffee, as she slips into the restricted-access ward like she belongs there, trying not to draw attention. As she takes up her post at the viewing window.

Rumlow's _awake_. Hope surges in Olivia's heart, though she'll have to squash it back down if she's to be of any use to him. 

They've been gradually letting him out from under the drugs; they've kept him heavily sedated for months, eyes fluttering against waves of morphine. Today, they're fully open and when she stands at the viewing window of his room he meets her gaze.  _I'll get you out of here_ _,_ she mouths, not sure if his hazed-out brain can make out her words. Still, she turns away already formulating a plan. She'll have to memorize the nurses' schedule, because he's too heavy for her to carry him and he certainly can't walk far like that. She'll have to get familiar with his condition and wheel him out on a gurney. She can have a car waiting—

Her heart skips a beat as she passes a familiar face in the hallway. That's Agent Romanoff, one of the few potential adversaries who ever worried her. When the two of them sparred, Olivia had never stood a chance. She'd thought of fighting like a dance, but with Romanoff she'd barely mapped out her next step before she found herself flat on her stomach. Often she wouldn't even know what had  _happened_. Agent Romanoff was skilled enough to make it painless, effortless. Up and in stance, then a tangle of confusion, and then the mat and the knee holding her down. Olivia always told herself she'd beat the other woman at least once, but it had never happened, and that was unsettling. Within a few years of training, Olivia could match Rumlow in hand-to-hand, and yet this woman of her own size had her on the ground in the time it took to blink.

But she's supposed to have gone to New York. What's she _doing_ here? If she knows—

But Romanoff only nods at her, passing by without a word. Still, her presence here is unnerving; Olivia's so focused on her that she fails to keep an eye on everything else around her, which is why she doesn't even struggle when the vicelike grip closes around her arms from behind.

"This way," Romanoff says quietly, and Olivia is steered into another hallway, an empty one. She's kicking and fighting now like when Uncle Wade used to grab her, and for her efforts she is lifted off the ground as easily as a puppy. It's Rogers, twisting her arms and legs behind her back the exact same way Rumlow liked to tie Winter. At the thought of him, she goes still. _He_ held still, most of the time. She thinks of him, and doesn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her struggle. She'll get out of this, though. She will.

Romanoff brings them through a side door, texting on her phone. "We can't draw attention; I'll get Clint to bring the car around."

Everything's happening too fast. Her arms are twisted, hard, and the sun is too fucking bright. Rogers is dragging her into the backseat of a van and all she can think of is Jessica's body haphazardly packed into the trunk of Dad's car, that ride out to the woods, and she's struggling and writhing again. Rogers's face is merciless, twisted in self-righteous disgust and _God_ she hates him and all he represents.

"We've got one more stop before we head back," comes a deep voice from the front of the van, "Think I might've found out where those cats are."

And Olivia only has time to think  _cats?_ before Romanoff is looming above her. There's a prick in her left arm—just above the thinnest scar, she knows the spot by feel alone—and then, nothing.


	3. Picking Up the Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Okay, anyone gonna start asking the real questions?"_
> 
> The Avengers are trying to clean up after Insight, but they keep on finding more messes.

"Two missions down in half a day," Clint muses, pulling onto the freeway, "And we had time to stop for lunch. We're not doing bad." There's a skinny, wrinkled cat draped over his shoulders, nibbling at his ear. He reaches up to stroke its head. "Hey there, Alex."

"That thing is so creepy," Natasha mutters.

"I think I like him better than the real Alex." 

Steve pets the soft white cat mewling in his lap and says nothing. Brock—the Brock cat—is nestled up under his shirt. And there's the funny-looking brown one crouched atop the driver's seat, glaring at everyone and everything and hissing whenever the car swerves. 

"Steve here is a real fan of belly rubs," Natasha notes, "And Julie's, uh...she's napping on the passed-out body."

"Okay, anyone gonna start asking the real questions?" asks Clint.

 _Officially_ , they're in D.C. on a request from what remains of SHIELD. Technically Clint is the only one of them who's still an agent, but the others have been working with them as needed. Leads on a well-barricaded HYDRA bunker have brought them here, but they've got a few agendas of their own.

Bucky had wanted so badly to come. It's been a week since that awful breakdown and he seems to be doing okay now, but he's under constant watch and he's absolutely not allowed on missions. Steve had felt horrible leaving him at the Tower. He knows Bucky is shaken and embarrassed, knows that what he remembered is still banging around inside his head, tearing him apart. He should be there for his friend right now.

But more than that, he at least partly knows how Bucky feels. He remembers being left behind, again and again, while everyone else went off to fight. He didn't  _want_ to be too weak, but his body and his circumstances betrayed his will. Back then, he'd never envisioned Bucky in his place, and would never have imagined leaving him behind.

"Just one thing," Bucky had said when Steve hugged him goodbye, "if you'll be in D.C. could you look for those cats?" He'd been mumbling about them the whole time he was drugged until Steve managed to piece enough together to understand. Steve feels bad, actually; he knew Murphy had cats, but didn't think to go looking for them.

So they're here for the cats and for SHIELD missions. But they also had a kind of side quest in mind; Tony has a viewing camera in the hospital room where Rumlow is being held. He'd reported that they're gradually bringing him out from under heavy sedation. He'll be questioned by SHIELD, sure, but Steve and Natasha have a few questions of their own. Some of it is necessary; a lot is personal.

Rumlow isn't quite awake enough to be questioned yet, but give it a week or two and he'll at least be capable of talking. Still, their trip to the hospital wasn't for nothing. The tied-up bundle in the backseat is reward enough for the entire trip to D.C.

Natasha had been the one to spot her, standing outside Rumlow's viewing window. "That's Kubiak" she'd said under her breath.

He wouldn't have taken her for anything more than a stray reporter. Most journalists were allowed into the prisoners' viewing wings if they had the right credentials. In Rumlow's case they were trying to keep the media at bay, but his name had been made public and guards and barriers couldn't keep out a truly determined reporter. 

This woman had been unassuming, hair twisted into in a tight bun, wearing plain jeans and an oversized windbreaker. "You sure?" he muttered back.

"Ninety-five percent sure. Let's stick around for a bit." Already her fingers were flying over the keypad of her phone.

When she turned her head Steve nodded; he'd only ever seen an image of the woman, but there was no mistaking that face. "It's her. What's she _doing_ here?"

Natasha just stared. 

It had seemed too easy. They've been combing the web searching for Kubiak and suddenly she was right here, in a very public building, visiting a man with notorious HYDRA affiliations? Her capture going down without a single hitch? She'd barely even fought Steve on the way to the van; getting her there had only been difficult because, knowing what she did, he'd hardly wanted to touch her.

The whole thing screamed 'trap' and so they weren't taking her to SHIELD, not yet, not until they could talk to someone about getting her imprisoned in a separate facility. She had to be trying to get inside, had to be planning something. 

Except Natasha scanned her over in the backseat and came up with zero tracking devices and minimal weapons. Standard-type stuff, knives concealed in boots and a firearm in her waistband. 

Before visiting the hospital, they'd been using every free moment searching for the cats. They'd become something of a fixation for Bucky, and somehow everyone else caught the obsession. None of them would rest until all six were accounted for.

Yesterday's trip to Murphy's had turned up no results in the feline department. But clearly, someone had been in Isaac's apartment.

It wasn't just the SHIELD agents who'd undoubtedly bugged the place and hooked it up to live-feed cameras. Steve had meandered from room to room, taking in the dust over the living room carpet and the rotted produce in the kitchen. There were framed cat pictures, but no actual cats. Steve had dreaded the sight of their small bodies and was highly relieved not to have found that.

But there was no litter box, no cat food, no toys to be found. They didn't escape; someone must have come and picked them up.

Clint had smoothed up a cat poster that was peeling off the wall. "Damn it, Izzy," he murmurs, "What were you  _doing_?"

Steve had been feeling the same way ever since they'd brought Murphy in. Despite his childishly excitable demeanor, Steve couldn't help feeling a bit of kinship with the man for his singlehanded and enthusiastic quest to fix all the world's problems. 

And then there were his tearful protests of animal abuse, his vehement insistence on diversifying pronoun usage, his excitement over cats and avocados and inspirational speeches. It was hard not to find him endearing. How the hell was that man HYDRA? Right up until his capture, Steve kept thinking Bucky had made a mistake.

Murphy's apartment looked almost exactly as it had last time Steve was there. Books lay scattered throughout the place; vegan cookbooks, mostly, and a few guides to participation in peaceful protests. The walls were adorned with posters of cute animals and (Steve noted with discomfort) a couple vintage Captain America posters from back when he'd done tours.

("I'm taking these," Natasha had said firmly, "I don't know if Bucky remembers what you look like in tights, but he needs a morale boost."

"I'm a little more concerned about the booty shorts, Captain," Clint had mused as Steve's face burned. Okay, he'll admit it's funny now, but he still remembers how ridiculous he felt up on that stage. He wants to warn that man with the forced cheesy grin, tell him what's coming in just a couple years' time.)

Joking aside, they'd all left saddened. Murphy's presence hung around the place still, and Steve had felt anew the betrayal and disbelief.

Quick contact with SHIELD had resulted in confused annoyance and confirmation that no, they hadn't found any cats at Murphy's place, so someone else had taken them. Clint had gotten the next lead while Steve and Natasha had gone to check in on Rumlow. 

"So Anders had a boyfriend, lives in the area. They questioned him when we brought her in, but he said he didn't know anything."

"They didn't think he might be lying?"

"Apparently not. Anyway, he's still living at the same address."

Or he had been.

"Damn it," Steve had said softly, looking around at what had once been a really nice apartment. Wherever Rowan was now, he hadn't gone out without a fight. The polished hardwood floor had been completely shredded in places, chairs tipped over, a fish tank cracked and empty.

He must have been there within the week, because just by the door, curled up inside a worn-out boot, was one living and breathing cat. The white one, Winter. Clint scooped him up, and the cat purred loudly and nuzzled his neck. Steve looked after the cats once, when Murphy had to go away. He'd paid special attention to each cat; Winter was deaf, so Murphy had learned to sign "I love you". He'd instructed Steve to do it at least once a day.

He heard the admission from Murphy's own lips and Steve still can't believe he was HYDRA.

The rest of the apartment was in better condition; the scuffle began and ended in the front hall. Someone searched the place, though; drawers hung open, cabinets spilling out their contents onto countertops.

Steve deposited Kubiak's limp body by the coat closet. Twisted as she was, they weren't leaving her in the van to die of heatstroke. At any rate, they hadn't captured her only to leave her unsupervised.

Finding most of the cats wasn't hard. Natasha located a bag of cat food and the next thing they knew, Julie and Alexander had appeared at her feet. Brock slunk out of a cabinet and Steve bounded across the floor. With Winter now yowling and pawing at the bag, that was every cat accounted for but—

Then Clint was swearing a blue streak and Steve's head was being savaged by a furry mass of claws and teeth. Natasha pulled the creature away, only to have the food kicked out of her hands. The cats swarmed over what must have been their first meal in days and the brown clump of fur began to growl. Steve hadn't even thought that cats  _could_ growl.

Gingerly, Natasha set the hissing, writhing hairball on the floor to get its share. 

"What the hell  _is_ that thing?" Clint asked. _  
_

Steve touched a stinging cut on his cheek. "Everybody, meet Jack."

Once the cats had been attended to, they searched the apartment, but if there'd been anything here worth taking, Rowan's captors had found it. All that was left were framed photos. An elderly, dark-skinned couple on a beach, a grinning toddler with a bow in her hair, lots and lots of pictures of Julie. Murphy was in a few of them too, smiling and waving. Steve wondered if any of these people had been targeted, if they were trying to reach Rowan now, wondering where he was.

So now they had a new mission tacked on, because while Steve wasn't entirely convinced of Rowan's innocence, he'd be damned if he was going to leave the man to an uncertain fate. But for now, their job was cats. Steve didn't mind that job so much, or at least, he thought he wouldn't.

Until the time came to leave.

Most of them were transported easily enough, although Alexander had to be placated with food before he allowed them to shut him in the van. Soon, five of six cats were good to go.

Jack, however, was having none of it.

"We are highly trained, competent SHIELD agents," Clint panted indignantly, touching the bloody mark on his ankle.

"Exceptionally capable," Natasha added through gritted teeth as Jack slipped her grasp once again.

"Got any of those tranqs left, Nat?" Steve suggested as the cat sailed over his head.

Eventually, they managed to corral Jack into the decimated front hallway, where Kubiak stirred feebly on the floor.

Steve stepped over her and deftly pinned Jack down, careful not to hurt her. The cat complained loudly all the way to the van, but once she saw Brock, she quieted. Jack had some strange affinity for the little Siamese. It was stupid, but it made Steve's throat sting. The real Jack had been protective of Brock too. And now he was dead, and Rumlow lay charred and alone in a hospital bed. Not that both of them didn't deserve their respective fates, but still...

Steve remembered Rollins hauling Rumlow out from under the rubble of a crushed storefront, brushing off the dust while Rumlow slapped his hands away with mock indignation. He wanted to say they deserved what they got, but he still remembered Rumlow drunk and with a glint in his eye, swinging Rollins around to kiss him full on the mouth. He'd had to stand on tiptoe.

Steve gritted his teeth and left the cats to their reunion.

Back inside, Natasha casually straddled a groggy Kubiak while preparing another round of tranqs. Before the shot was ready, Kubiak's sharp eyes slid fully open. She blinked a couple times, looking thoroughly confused, then horror crossed her face. "What did you do to Anders?" she rasped. 

Steve thinks again of Rollins and Rumlow, laughing and shoving and punching each other. It's odd, a little uncomfortable, to realize that this sick, cruel woman is capable of caring about other people. 

"This wasn't us," Natasha said quietly, "And it wasn't for Anders. Although if you know anyone who had a grudge against the boyfriend..."

Kubiak fell silent, eyes flitting from the holes in the walls to the broken fish tank. A slight frown creased her face. It was enough of an answer; Rowan wasn't HYDRA, and if he was  _wanted_  by HYDRA, she didn't know why.

"Right, then. Sweet dreams," Natasha said, swiftly administering another shot.

So now they're on the freeway, their group expanded by six cats, one body, and a thick book on cat care in Murphy's meticulous handwriting. It contains inky paw prints, taped-in photos, and personal cat anecdotes. Steve's flipping through it while he starts in on his third sandwich. Isaac  _would_ make a baby book for his cats.

"Real questions like 'if HYDRA didn't take the boyfriend then who did'?" he volunteers, skimming through a story about Alexander protecting Winter from an overly enthusiastic Jehovah's Witness.

"Or 'Whoever took him wanted him alive, so why is that?'" 

" _Do_ we know he's alive?"

"No body. If they'd taken him somewhere else to kill him they'd have cleaned up after themselves. They must be pretty sure no one's going to come looking for him.  _Except_ ," Natasha says slowly, "SHIELD has to be monitoring the place. And  _they_ didn't come to investigate. So. who's gonna be the one to say it?"

Clint's managed to get Alexander purring, slumped around his neck like a feline scarf. "Don't look at me, I'm just the driver."

Steve lets out a breath, absently petting Brock through his shirt. "Think we might start by looking into that holding facility." 

"We still got another day to work with before we gotta start blowing shit up again. Speaking of which, who's babysitting Sleeping Beauty back there?"

"We're all needed in our positions. She'll have to come with." Natasha pokes Kubiak's leg. "Congratulations. You've just been granted an instantaneous Level Six status. I know," she adds, "It's a terrible idea, what else is new?"

Clint pulls the car onto the exit ramp. "Holding facility it is. I got some questions for our good old teammates, anyway."

"I know," Natasha says bitterly, "I want to ask Murphy why there isn't a cat named after me."

*

" _Not authorized to see them._  We brought most of them in." Natasha looks deeply concerned, shaken. She's been finding it harder and harder to keep up her impassive mask; this past year has taken a larger toll than she'll admit.

They're back in the motel room, eating fast food out of a bag. Kubiak is drooling over the edge of the couch; Natasha left a pile of French fries next to her head for when she fully rouses. 

The cats are exploring this new territory. Brock is climbing the heavy curtains; Steve hopes no one complains about the claw marks. Jack and Julie glare out from under the bed. Alexander is eating bites of hamburger from Clint's hand, and Winter is batting at the curls of hair springing free from Kubiak's tight bun. No one's really making an effort to stop him.

"I wish I'd just gone  _in_ there," Steve says, taking a bite of his hamburger, "What was he gonna do, try and—" _  
_

"No, walking away was better. They know you pretty well now, Steve. It's safe to say they'd honestly have been prepared for you to go running in. We will get in there, but we'll have to be subtle."

Hissing erupts from under the bed. Clint shoves a handful of meat beneath the skirt and silence ensues.

"What would Murphy say if he knew you were feeding his cats Burger King?"

"Same thing I said when I learned he was gonna feed us to Pierce. Tony can probably afford whatever brand of cat food he was giving them."

Steve shakes his head. "This isn't going to work out long-term. We're keeping Kubiak on tranqs and the cats can't live on fast food. And, what, we're gonna keep on capturing people for SHIELD after this just happened? We've got to go back to the Tower, figure out what we're doing."

Alexander jumps into his lap, eyeing the chicken tender in his hand. Steve tears off a piece and holds it out. Alexander leans in for it, only for Brock to come tumbling down from the curtains, snatching it and running away. Hissing, Alexander races after him.

"I'ink youright" Clint says around a mouthful of hamburger. Natasha blows a straw wrapper at him before sticking the straw in her soda. "We gotta get these cats home, get this bitch locked up. She's a liability."

"You mean we don't get to prop her up when we're on missions and SnapChat pictures to Tony?" Steve isn't entirely sure if Nat's kidding.

"I'm gonna call Bucky," Steve says, "And after that we can get Tony on the line." He's been calling Bucky as often as possible. With this new strain of memories hitting him in full force and new doors falling open every week, Steve wants to be there for him in any way possible.

Oh, man, but if Bucky's remembered anything new today...Steve's not sure he can stomach any more Kubiak stories with her lying not ten feet from him.

"You go do that." Without looking up from his burger, Clint flings a French fry across the table. Natasha catches it in her teeth and flips him the finger.

*

Steve wasn't going to burden Bucky with paranoia and suspicions and problems he'll never be allowed to come help fix.

He wasn't. He really wasn't.

"Steve, what's the matter?" Bucky demands five minutes into their phone call. "I'm  _fine._  I'd, uh, really appreciate being allowed to  _shower_ on my own, but other than that I'm—"

"It's not that, Bucky, really," Steve insists, a weight settling on his shoulders. Bucky nearly killed himself in that last meltdown, and it was decided that it wasn't safe to leave him anywhere unattended. But having them watch him shower...he's seen the room where the techs had stripped him and washed him down. As far as dignity goes, it feels like they're not doing a whole lot better.

And occupying his shower is an invasion of a very vulnerable state. After everything Bucky's handlers did to him...

"What is it, then?" Bucky's exasperated. "Come on, Steve, I can feel you worrying from all the way out here."

And then it all comes out, Coulson (and Steve has enough problems with the man having let everyone believe he was dead for as long as he did) and not being allowed inside the stronghold. Best case scenario, he'd just be offended, but then there's the suspicion factor. No matter what,  _no matter what_ , he seems to find himself working for people he should never have trusted. "And all those HYDRA agents we gave to them? Julie and Isaac—we really should have thought of that _before_ we handed them over."

And now he's cursing himself for dumping his worries on Bucky like this—and _shit,_ he doesn't want to sound like he's sympathizing with the people who used and abused his friend. They were HYDRA. They'd still _be_ HYDRA if they had the chance. They _need_ to be locked up.

"Huh," Bucky says after a pause, "Well, you're right to be suspicious. Nat's right, though, if you'd just gone barreling in there they'd have been ready for it. But, you know, you have got help up here. If Stark can fuck up their security he might be able to get you some time inside. Figure out where to go from there. Oh, and..." he pauses, "I hate to say it, but even if something sketchy's going on, you gotta ask yourself if it's worth bringing SHIELD down on your head if you're thinking of busting out HYDRA agents who needed to be locked up in the first place."

"There's the problem," Steve admits heavily, "I was only thinking of Isaac and Julie, but we put a lot of people in those holding cells. We can't possibly take all of them, even if they'd all cooperate. I don't know all of them. How do I decide who deserves to be rescued?"

"There's that," Bucky agrees, "But it might not be about rescue. It might not even be about the prisoners. It could be a thing they don't want you to see. Like everyone that didn't know about Insight."

"That right there's still a problem, though," Steve says, "Anything they don't want us to see is bound to matter to a lot of people. In this case, it's in a building full of holding cells, and I helped put a lot of those people in there."

Bucky sighs. "All right, tell you what. I'll go get the others and we'll make it a conference call. We'll see if we can't get you in there, figure out what's going on. Hell, Stark'll probably do it just to prove he can. Hang on, okay?"

Steve rests his head against the concrete wall of the motel. "Thanks, Buck." Just for having talked it out, for having the beginnings of a plan, his head feels clearer.

"S'okay. One thing, though."

"The cats?"

"...yeah."

"Got some good news for you."

They set up a Skype call around Natasha's computer. Steve holds his feline namesake up to the screen and Bucky's face lights up with a smile like Steve hasn't seen in seventy years. "Hey, Steve, remember me?"

Steve meows.

"We can get you tomorrow morning, if you want," Pepper says, "But we need to come up with a reason for bringing you back here."

"Could say I freaked out again and Steve came back to keep me in line," Bucky shrugs, "They might buy that. You could say you need all hands on deck to deal with me." 

"Wouldn't that bring SHIELD to the Tower, though?" Natasha frowns, "We told Coulson you don't remember anything. We're trying to keep you out of one of those holding cells."

Steve had completely forgotten about that. When Coulson found out they had apprehended the Winter Soldier, he'd wanted to conduct an investigation. Steve, apprehensive, had told him that Bucky wasn't ready to meet with anyone from SHIELD. He'd had meant to offer Bucky the choice of talking to him, but that was before the doorway memories started coming in full force.

"Catatonia, then. Or something like that." Bucky has quite a list of psychological terminology to draw from these days. He still sounds casual, but his knuckle is at his mouth. He's not biting hard, not yet, but something about this conversation is agitating him. Steve can't ask him about it, not in front of everyone. That would probably make him feel worse.

"All right, we get back, we scope out the situation with SHIELD, we tell them we went off-mission because of Bucky. Anyone who knows Steve would buy that. And we investigate Rowan's disappearance. Anything else?"

"We want to keep an eye on Extra Crispy too."

Pepper's eyeing Bucky now, and he quickly drops his bloodied hand to his lap. By unspoken agreement, the meeting is wrapped up quickly. Steve reaches over and grabs the nearest passing cat—Julie meows indignantly—and Bucky smiles again and gives the her a little wave. At least, Steve thinks, they'll know one good thing came of this trip.

It's only after everyone is off the line that Steve realizes they never told Bucky who was coming home with them.

This could be a problem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Murphy's cats are originally from [this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3726220).
> 
> I have lots of ideas for this story now, but thanks to college the writing will come slowly.


End file.
